University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 


PRUE  AND 


GEORGE   WILLIAM    CURTIS 


•j 

THE  MERSHON  COMPANY 


TO 
MRS.   HENRY  W.   LONGFELLOW. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  THE  HAPPY  HOURS 
AT  OUR  CASTLES  IN  SPAIN. 


CONTENTS. 

PASE 

I.  DINNER  TIME, i 

II.  MY  CHATEAUX,  .       «        .      27 

III.  SEA  FROM  SHORE,       .  .        e        .58 

IV.  TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES,  »        •        .      94 
V.  A  CRUISE  IN  THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN,     .     13? 

VI.     FAMILY  PORTRAITS,  .        .        •        •     I75 

VII.    OUR  COUSIN  THE  CURATE,         ...    190 


A  WORD  TO  THE  GENTLE  READER. 

AN  old  bookkeeper,  who  wears  a  white  cra- 
vat and  black  trousers  in  the  morning,  who 
rarely  goes  to  the  opera,  and  never  dines  out, 
is  clearly  a  person  of  no  fashion  and  of  no 
superior  sources  of  information.  'His  only 
journey  is  from  his  house  to  his  office;  his 
only  satisfaction  is  in  doing  his  duty;  his  only 
happiness  is  in  his  Prue  and  his  children. 

What  romance  can  such  a  life  have?  What 
stories  can  such  a  man  tell  ? 

Yet  I  think,  sometimes,  when  I  look  up 
from  the  parquet  at  the  opera,  and  see  Au- 
relia  smiling  in  the  boxes,  and  holding  her 
court  of  love,  and  youth,  and  beauty,  that  the 
historians  have  not  told  of  a  fairer  queen,  nor 
the  travelers  seen  devouter  homage.  And 
when  I  remember  that  it  was  in  misty  England 
that  quaint  old  George  Herbert  sang  of  the 

"  Sweet  day  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright — 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky," 

vii 


Viii        A    WORD    TO    THE    GENTLE   READER. 

I  am  sure  that  I  see  days  as  lovely  in  our 
clearer  air,  and  do  not  believe  that  Italian  sun- 
sets have  a  more  gorgeous  purple  or  a  softer 
gold. 

So,  as  the  circle  of  my  little  life  revolves,  I 
console  myself  with  believing,  what  I  cannot 
help  believing,  that  a  man  need  not  be  a  vaga- 
bond to  enjoy  the  sweetest  charm  of  travel,  but 
that  all  countries  and  all  times  repeat  them- 
selves in  his  experience.  This  is  an  old  phil- 
osophy, I  am  told,  and  much  favored  by  those 
who  have  traveled;  and  I  cannot  but  be  glad 
that  my  faith  has  such  a  fine  name  and  such 
competent  witnesses.  I  am  assured,  however, 
upon  the  other  hand,  that  such  a  faith  is  only 
imagination.  But,  if  that  be  true,  imagination 
is  as  good  as  many  voyages — and  how  much 
cheaper! — a  consideration  which  an  old  book- 
keeper can  never  afford  to  forget. 

I  have  not  found,  in  my  experience,  that 
travelers  always  bring  back  with  them  the 
sunshine  of  Italy  or  the  elegance  of  Greece. 
They  tell  us  that  there  are  such  things,  and 
that  they  have  seen  them;  but,  perhaps,  they 
saw  them,  as  the  apples  in  the  garden  of  the 
Hesperides  were  sometimes  seen — over  the 
wall.  I  prefer  the  fruit  which  I  can  buy  in 
the  market  to  that  which  a  man  tells  me  he 


A  WORD  TO  THE  GENTLE  READER.     IX 

saw  in  Sicily,  but  of  which  there  is  no  flavor  in 
his  story.  Others,  like  Moses  Primrose, 
bring  us  a  gross  of  such  spectacles  as  we  pre- 
fer not  to  see ;  so  that  I  begin  to  suspect  a  man 
must  have  Italy  and  Greece  in  his  heart  and 
mind  if  he  would  ever  see  them  with  his  eyes. 

I  know  that  this  may  be  only  a  device  of 
that  compassionate  imagination  designed  to 
•comfort  me,  who  shall  never  take  but  one 
other  journey  than  my  daily  beat.  Yet  there 
liave  been  wise  men  who  taught  that  all  scenes 
.are  but  pictures  upon  the  mind;  and  if  I  can 
see  them  as  I  walk  the  street  that  leads  to  my 
office,  or  sit  at  the  office  window  looking  into 
the  court,  or  take  a  little  trip  down  the  bay  or 
tip  the  river,  why  are  not  my  pictures  as  pleas- 
ant and  as  profitable  as  those  which  men  travel 
for  years,  at  great  cost  of  time,  and  trouble, 
and  money,  to  behold? 

For  my  part,  I  do  not  believe  that  any  man 
•can  see  softer  skies  than  I  see  in  Prue's  eyes; 
nor  hear  sweeter  music  than  I  hear  in  Prue's 
voice;  nor  find  a  more  heaven-lighted  temple 
than  I  know  Prue's  mind  to  be.  And  when  I 
wish  to  please  myself  with  a  lovely  image  of 
peace  and  contentment,  I  do  not  think  of  the 
plain  of  Sharon,  nor  of  the  valley  of  Enna,  nor 
of  Arcadia,  nor  of  Claude's  pictures;  but,  feel- 


X      A  WORD  TO  THE  GENTLE  READER. 

ing  that  the  fairest  fortune  of  my  life  is  the 
right  to  be  named  with  her,  I  whisper  gently, 
to  myself,  with  a  smile — for  it  seems  as  if  my 
very  heart  smiled  within  me,  when  I  think  of 
her—"  Prue  and  I." 


PRUE    AND    I. 


DINNER  TIME. 

"  Within  this  hour  it  will  be  dinner  time ; 
I'll  view  the  manners  of  the  town, 
Peruse  the  traders,  gaze  upon  the  buildings." 

— Comedy  of  Errors. 

IN  the  warm  afternoons  of  the  early  sum- 
mer, it  is  my  pleasure  to  stroll  about  Washing- 
ton Square  and  along  the  Fifth  Avenue,  at 
the  hour  when  the  diners-out  are  hurrying  to 
the  tables  of  the  wealthy  and  refined.  I  gaze 
with  placid  delight  upon  the  cheerful  expanse 
of  white  waistcoat  that  illumes  those  streets  at 
that  hour,  and  mark  the  variety  of  emotions 
that  swell  beneath  all  that  purity.  A  man 
going  out  to  dine  has  a  singular  cheerfulness 
of  aspect.  Except  for  his  gloves,  which  fit  so 
well,  and  which  he  has  carefully  buttoned,  that 
he  may  not  make  an  awkward  pause  in  the 
hall  of  his  friend's  house,  I  am  sure  he  would 
search  his  pocket  for  a*  cent  to  give  the  wan 


2  PRUE    AND    I. 

beggar  at  the  corner.  It  is  impossible  just 
now,  my  dear  woman ;  but  God  bless  you ! 

It  is  pleasant  to  consider  that  simple  suit  of 
black.  If  my  man  be  young  and  only  lately 
cognizant  of  the  rigors  of  the  social  law,  he  is 
a  little  nervous  at  being  seen  in  his  dress  suit 
— body  coat  and  black  trousers — before  sun- 
set. For  in  the  last  days  of  May  the  light 
lingers  long  over  the  freshly  leaved  trees  in 
the  Square,  and  lies  warm  along  the  Avenue. 
All  winter  the  sun  has  not  been  permitted  to 
see  dresscoats.  They  come  out  only  with  the 
stars,  and  fade  with  ghosts,  before  the  dawn. 
Except,  haply,  they  be  brought  homeward  be- 
fore breakfast  in  an  early  twilight  of  hackney- 
co<ach.  Now,  in  the  budding  and  bursting^ 
summer,  the  sun  takes  his  revenge,  and  looks 
aslant  over  the  treetops  and  the  chimneys 
upon  the  most  unimpeachable  garments.  A 
cat  m!ay  look  upon  a  king. 

I  know  my  man  at  a  distance.  If  I  am 
chatting  with  the  nursery  maids  around  the 
fountain,  I  see  him  upon  the  broad  walk  of 
Washington  Square,  and  detect  him  by  the 
freshness  of  his  movement,  his  springy  gait. 
Then  the  white  waistcoat  flashes  in  the  sun. 

"  Go  on,  happy  youth,"  1  exclaim  aloud,  to 
the  great  alarm  of,  the  nursery  maids,  who 


DINNER    TIME.  3 

suppose  me  to  be  an  innocent  insane  person 
suffered  to  go  at  large,  unattended — "  go  on, 
and  be  happy  with  fellow-waistcoats  over 
fragrant  wines." 

It  is  hard  to  describe  the  pleasure  in  this 
amiable  spectacle  of  a  man  going  out  to  dine. 
I,  who  am  a  quiet  family  man,  and  take  a  quiet 
family  cut  at  four  o'clock;  or,  when  I  am  de- 
tained downtown  by  a  false  quantity  in  my 
figures,  who  run  into  Delmonico's  and  seek 
comfort  in  a  cutlet,  am  rarely  invited  to  din- 
ner, and  have  few  white  waistcoats.  Indeed, 
my  dear  Prue  tells  me  that  I  have  but  one  in 
the  world,  and  I  often  want  to  confront  my 
eager  young  friends  as  they  bound  along,  and 
ask  abruptly,  "  What  do  you  think  of  a  man 
whom  one  white  waistcoat  suffices?" 

By  the  time  I  have  eaten  my  modest  repast, 
it  is  the  hour  for  the  diners-out  to  appear.  If 
the  day  is  unusually  soft  and  sunny,  I  hurry 
my  simple  meal  a  little,  that  I  may  not  lose 
any  of  my  favorite  spectacle.  Then  I  saunter 
out.  If  you  met  me  you  would  see  that  I  am 
also  clad  in  black.  But  black  is  my  natural 
color,  s'o  that  it  begets  no  false  theories  con- 
cerning my  intentions.  Nobody,  meeting  me 
in  full  black,  supposes  that  I  am  going  to  dine 
out.  That  somber  hue  is  professional  with 


4  PRUE    AND    I. 

me.  It  belongs  to  bookkeepers  as  to  clergy, 
men,  physicians,  and  undertakers.  We  wear 
it  because  we  follow  solemn  callings.  Saving 
men's  bodies  and  souls,  or  keeping  the  ma- 
chinery of  business  well  wound,  are  such  sad 
professions  that  it  is  becoming  to  drape  dole- 
fully those  who  adopt  them. 

I  wear  a  white  cravat,  too,  but  nobody  sup- 
poses that  it  is  in  any  danger  of  being  stained 
by  Lafitte.  It  is  a  limp  cravat  with  a  craven 
tie.  It  has  none  of  the  dazzling  dash  of  the 
white  that  my  young  friends  sport,  or,  I  should 
say,  sported;  for  the  white  cravat  is  now 
abandoned  to  the  somber  professions  of  whi<?h 
I  spoke.  My  young  friends  suspect  that  the 
flunkeys  of  the  British  nobleman  wear  such 
ties,  and  they  have,  therefore,  discarded  them. 
I  am  sorry  to  remark,  also,  an  uneasiness,  if 
not  downright  skepticism,  about  the  white 
waistcoat.  Will  it  extend  to  shirts,  I  ask  my- 
self with  sorrow. 

But  there  is  something  pleasanter  to  con- 
template during  these  quiet  strolls  of  mine, 
than  the  men  who  are  going  to  dine  out,  and 
that  is,  the  women.  They  roll  in  carriages  to- 
the  happy  houses  which  they  shall  honor,  and 
I  strain  my  eyes  in  at  the  carriage  window  to 
see  their  cheerful  faces  as  they  pass.  I  have 


DINNER    TIME.  5 

already  dined;  upon  beef  and  cabbage,  prob- 
ably, if  it  is  boiled  day.  I  am  not  expected  at 
the  table  to  which  Aurelia  is  hastening,  yet 
no  guest  there  shall  enjoy  more  than  I  enjoy 
— nor  so  much,  if  he  considers  the  meats  the 
best  part  of  the  dinner.  The  beauty  of  the 
beautiful  Aurelia  I  see  and  worship  as  she 
drives  by.  The  vision  of  many  beautiful  Au-- 
relias  driving  to  dinner  is  the  mirage  of  that 
pleasant  journey  of  mine  along  the  avenue.  I 
do  not  envy  the  Persian  poets,  on  those  after- 
noons, nor  long  to  be  an  Arabian  traveler. 
For  I  can  walk  that  street,  finer  than  any  of 
which  the  Ispahan  architects  dreamed;  and  I 
can  see  sultanas  as  splendid  as  the  enthusiastic 
and  exaggerating  Orientals  describe. 

But  not  only  do  I  see  and  enjoy  Aurelia's 
beauty.  I  delight  in  her  exquisite  attire.  In 
these  warm  days  she  does  not  wear  so  much 
as  the  lightest  s'hawl.  She  is  clad  only  in 
spring  sunshine.  It  glitters  in  the  soft  dark- 
ness of  her  hair.  It  touches  the  diamonds, 
the  opals,  the  pearls,  that  cling  to  her  arms, 
and  neck,  and  ringers.  They  flash  back  again, 
and  the  gorgeous  silks  glisten,  and  the  light 
laces  flutter,  until  the  stately  Aurelia  seems  to 
me,  in  tremulous  radiance,  swimming  by. 

I  doubt  whether  you  who  are  to  have  the  in- 


6  PRUE    AND    I. 

expressible  pleasure  of  dining  with  her,  and 
even  of  sitting  by  her  side,  will  enjoy  more 
than  I.  For  my  pleasure  is  inexpressible, 
also.  And  it  is  in  this  greater  than  yours, 
that  I  see  all  the  beautiful  ones  who  are  to  dine 
at  various  tables,  while  you  only  see  your  own 
circle,  although  that,  I  will  not  deny,  is  the 
most  desirable  of  all. 

Besides,  although  my  person  is  not  present 
at  your  dinner,  my  fancy  is.  I  see  Aurelia's 
carriage  stop,  and  behold  white-gloved  serv- 
ants opening  wide  doors.  There  is  a  brief 
glimpse  of  magnificence  for  the  dull  eyes  of 
the  loiterers  outside;  then  the  door  closes. 
But  my  fancy  went  in  with  Aurelia.  With 
her,  it  looks  at  the  vast  mirror,  and  surveys 
her  form  at  length  in  the  Psyche-glass.  It 
gives  the  final  shake  to  the  skirt,  the  last  flirt 
to  the  embroidered  handkerchief,  carefully 
held,  and  adjusts  the  bouquet,  complete  as  a 
tropic  nestling  in  orange  leaves.  It  descends 
with  -her,  and  marks  the  faint  blush  upon  her 
cheek  at  the  thought  of  her  exceeding  beauty; 
the  consciousness  of  the  most  beautiful 
woman,  that  the  most  beautiful  woman 
is  entering  the  room.  There  is  the  momen- 
tary hush,  the  subdued  greeting,  the  quick 
glance  of  the  Aurelias  who  have  arrived 


DINNER    TIME.  7 

earlier,  and  who  perceive  in  a  moment  the 
hopeless  perfection  of  that  attire;  the  courtly 
gaze  of  gentlemen,  who  feel  the  serenity  of 
that  beauty.  All  this  my  fancy  surveys;  my 
fancy,  Aurelia's  invisible  cavalier. 

You  approach  with  hat  in  hand  and  the 
thumb  of  your  left  hand  in  your  waistcoat 
pocket.  You  are  polished  and  cool,  and  have 
an  irreproachable  repose  of  manner.  There 
are  no  improper  wrinkles  in  your  cravat;  your 
shirt-bosom  does  not  bulge;  the  trousers  are 
accurate  about  your  admirable  boot.  But  you 
look  very  stiff  and  brittle.  You  are  a  little 
bullied  by  your  unexceptionable  shirt  collar, 
which  interdicts  perfect  freedom  of  movement 
in  your  head.  You  are  elegant,  undoubtedly, 
but  it  seems  as  if  you  might  break  and  fall  to 
pieces,  like  a  porcelain  vase,  if  you  were 
roughly  shaken. 

Now,  here,  I  have  the  advantage  of  you* 
My  fancy  quietly  surveying  the  scene,  is  sub- 
ject to  none  of  these  embarrassments.  My 
fancy  will  not  utter  commonplaces.  That  will 
not  say  to  the  superb  lady,  who  stands  with 
her  flowers,  incarnate  May,  "  What  a  beauti- 
ful day,  Miss  Aurelia."  That  will  not  feel 
constrained  to  say  something,  when  it  has 
nothing  to  say;  nor  will  it  be  obliged  to 


8  PRUE    AND   I. 

smother  all  the  pleasant  things  that  occur,  be- 
cause they  would  be  too  flattering  to  express. 
My  fancy  perpetually  murmurs  in  Aurelia's 
ear,  "  Those  flowers  would  not  be  fair  in  your 
hand,  if  you  yourself  were  not  fairer.  That 
diamond  necklace  would  be  gaudy,  if  your 
eyes  were  not  brighter.  That  queenly  move- 
ment would  be  awkward,  if  your  soul  were  not 
queenlier." 

You  could  not  say  such  things  to  Aurelia, 
although,  if  you  are  worthy  to  dine  at  her  side, 
they  are  the  very  things  you  are  longing  to 
say.  What  insufferable  stuff  you  are  talking 
about  the  weather,  and  the  opera,  and  Alboni's 
delicious  voice,  and  Newport,  and  Saratoga! 
They  are  all  very  pleasant  subjects,  but  do  you 
suppose  Ixion  talked  Thessalian  politics  when 
he  was  admitted  to  dine  with  Juno? 

I  almost  begin  to  pity  you,  and  to  believe 
that  a  scarcity  of  white  waistcoats  is  true  wis- 
dom. For  now  dinner  is  announced,  and  you, 
O  rare  felicity,  are  to  hand  down  Aurelia. 
But  you  run  the  risk  of  tumbling  her  expan- 
sive skirt,  and  you  have  to  drop  your  hat  upon 
a  chance  chair,  and  wonder,  en  passant,  who 
will  wear  it  home,  which  is  annoying.  My 
fancy  runs  no  such  risk ;  is  not  at  all  solicitous 
about  its  hat,  and  glides  by  the  side  of  Aurelia, 


DINNER    TIME.  9 

stately  as  she.  There!  you  stumble  on  the 
stair,  and  are  vexed  at  your  own  awkwardness, 
and  are  sure  you  saw  the  ghost  of  a  smile 
glimmer  along  that  superb  face  at  your  side. 
My  fancy  doesn't  tumble  downstairs,  and  what 
kind  of  looks  it  sees  upon  Aurelia's  face  are  its 
own  secret. 

Is  it  any  better,  now  you  are  seated  at  table? 
Your  companion  eats  little  because  she  wishes 
little.  You  eat  little  because  you  think  it  is 
elegant  to  do  so.  It  is  a  shabby,  second-hand 
elegance,  like  your  brittle  behavior.  It  is  just 
as  foolish  for  you  to  play  with  the  meats,  when 
you  ought  to  satisfy  your  healthy  appetite  gen- 
erously, as  it  it  for  you,  in  the  drawing  room,, 
to  affect  that  cool  indifference  when  you  have 
real  and  noble  interests. 

I  grant  you  that  fine  manners,  if  you  please, 
are  a  fine  art.  But  is  not  monotony  the  de- 
struction of  art?  Your  manners,  O  happy 
Ixion,  banqueting  with  Juno,  are  Egyptian. 
They  have  no  perspective,  no  variety.  They 
have  no  color,  no  shading.  They  are  all  on  a 
dead  level ;  they  are  flat.  Now,  for  you  are  a 
man  of  sense,  you  are  conscious  that  those 
wonderful  eyes  of  Aurelia  see  straight  through 
all  this  network  of  elegant  manners  in  which 
you  have  entangled  yourself,  and  that  con' 


10  PRUE    AND    I. 

sciousness  is  uncomfortable  to  you.  It  is  an- 
other trick  in  the  game  for  me,  because  those 
eyes  do  not  pry  into  my  fancy.  How  can  they, 
since  Aurelia  does  not  know  of  my  existence? 
Unless,  indeed,  she  should  remember  the 
first  time  I  saw  her.  It  was  only  last  year,  in 
May.  I  had  dined,  somewhat  hastily,  in  con- 
sideration of  the  fine  day,  and  of  my  confi- 
dence that  many  would  be  wending  dinner- 
wards  that  afternoon.  I  saw  my  Prue  com- 
fortably engaged  in  seating  the  trousers  of 
Adoniram,  our  eldest  boy — an  economical 
care  to  which  my  darling  Prue  is  not  unequal, 
even  in  these  days  and  in  this  town — and  then 
hurried  toward  the  avenue.  It  is  never  much 
thronged  at  that  hour.  The  moment  is  sacred 
to  dinner.  As  I  paused  at  the  corner  of 
Twelfth  Street,  by  the  church,  you  remember, 
I  saw  an  apple-woman,  from  whose  stores  I 
determined  to  finish  my  dessert,  which  had 
been  imperfect  at  home.  But,  mindful  of 
meritorious  and  economical  Prue,  I  was  not 
the  man  to  pay  exorbitant  prices  for  apples, 
and  while  still  haggling  with  the  wrinkled  Eve 
who  had  tempted  me,  I  became  suddenly 
aware  of  a  carriage  approaching,  and,  indeed, 
already  close  by.  I  raised  my  eyes,  still 
munching  an  apple  which  I  held  in  one  hand, 


DINNER    TIME.  II 

while  the  other  grasped  my  walking  stick 
(true  to  my  instincts  of  dinner  guests,  as 
young  women  to  a  passing  wedding  or  old 
ones  to  a  funeral),  and  beheld  Aurelia! 

Old  in  this  kind  of  observation  as  I  am, 
there  was  something  so  graciously  alluring  in 
the  look  that  she  cast  upon  me,  as  uncon- 
sciously, indeed,  as  she  would  have  cast  it 
upon  the  church,  that,  fumbling  hastily  for  my 
spectacles  to  enjoy  the  boon  more  fully,  I 
thoughtlessly  advanced  upon  the  apple-stand,, 
and,  in  some  indescribable  manner,  tripping,, 
down  we  all  fell  into  the  street,  old  woman, 
apples,  baskets,  stand,  and  I,  in  promiscuous 
confusion.  As  I  struggled  there,  somewhat 
bewildered,  yet  sufficiently  self-possessed  to 
look  after  the  carriage,  I  beheld  that  beautiful 
woman  looking  at  us  through  the  back  win- 
dow (you  could  not  have  done  it;  the  integrity 
of  your  shirt  collar  would  have  interfered), 
and  smiling  pleasantly,  so  that  her  going 
around  the  corner  was  like  a  gentle  sunset,  so 
seemed  she  to  disappear  in  her  own  smiling; 
or — if  you  choose,  in  view  of  the  apple  diffi- 
culties— like  a  rainbow  after  a  storm. 

If  the  beautiful  Aurelia  recalls  that  event, 
she  may  know  of  my  existence;  not  otherwise. 
And  even  then  she  knows  me  only  as  a  funny 


12  PRUE    AND    I. 

old  gentleman,  who,  in  his  eagerness  to  look 
at  her,  tumbled  over  an  apple  woman. 

My  fancy  from  that  moment  followed  her. 
How  grateful  I  was  to  the  wrinkled  Eve's  ex- 
tortion, and  to  the  untoward  tumble,  since  it 
procured  me  the  sight  of  that  smile.  I  took 
my  sweet  revenge  from  that.  For  I  knew 
that  the  beautiful  Aurelia  entered  the  house  of 
her  host  with  beaming  eyes,  and  my  fancy 
heard  her  sparkling  story.  You  consider 
yourself  happy  because  you  are  sitting  by  her 
and  helping  her  to  a  lady-finger,  or  a  maca- 
roon, for  which  she  smiles.  But  I  was  her 
theme  for  ten  mortal  minutes.  She  was  my 
bard,  my  blithe  historian.  She  was  the 
Homer  of  my  luckless  Trojan  fall.  She  set 
my  mishap  to  music,  in  telling  it.  Think 
what  it  is  to  have  inspired  Urania;  to  have 
called  a  brighter  beam  into  the  eyes  of  Mi- 
randa, and  do  not  think  so  much  of  passing 
Aurelia  the  mottoes,  my  dear  young  friend. 

There  was  the  advantage  of  not  going  to 
that  dinner.  Had  I  been  invited,  as  you  were, 
I  should  have  pestered  Prue  about  the  buttons 
on  my  white  waistcoat,  instead  of  leaving  her 
placidly  piercing  adolescent  trousers.  She 
would  have  been  flustered,  fearful  of  being  too 
late,  of  tumbling  the  garment,  of  soiling  it, 


DINNER    TIME.  13 

fearful  of  offending  me  in  some  way  (admir- 
able woman!),  I,  in  my  natural  impatience, 
might  have  let  drop  a  thoughtless  word,  which 
would  have  been  a  pang  in  her  heart  and  a 
tear  in  her  eye,  for  weeks  afterward. 

As  I  walked  nervously  up  the  avenue  (for  I 
am  unaccustomed  to  prandial  recreations),  I 
should  not  have  had  that  solacing  image  of 
quiet  Prue,  and  the  trousers,  as  the  back- 
ground in  the  pictures  of  the  gay  figures  I 
passed,  making  each,  by  contrast,  fairer.  I 
should  have  been  wondering  what  to  say  and 
do  at  the  dinner.  I  should  surely  have  been 
very  warm,  and  yet  not  have  enjoyed  the  rich, 
waning  sunlight.  Need  I  tell  you  that  I 
should  not  have  stopped  for  apples,  but  in- 
stead of  economically  tumbling  into  the  street 
with  apples  and  apple  women,  whereby  I 
merely  rent  my  trousers  across  the  knee,  in  a 
manner  that  Prue  can  readily,  and  at  little 
cost,  repair,  I  should,  beyond  peradventure, 
have  split  a  new  dollar-pair  of  gloves  in  the 
effort  of  straining  my  large  hands  into  them, 
which  would,  also,  have  caused  me  additional 
redness  in  the  face,  and  renewed  fluttering. 

Above  all,  I  should  not  have  seen  Aurelia 
passing  in  her  carriage,  nor  would  she  have 
smiled  at  me,  nor  charmed  my  memory  with 


14  PRUE    AND    I. 

lier  radiance,  nor  the  circle  at  dinner  with  the 
sparkling  Iliad  of  my  woes.  Then  at  the 
table,  I  should  not  have  sat  by  her.  You 
would  have  had  that  pleasure;  I  should  have 
led  out  the  maiden  aunt  from  the  country,  and 
have  talked  poultry,  when  I  talked  at  all.  Au- 
relia  would  not  have  remarked  me.  After- 
ward, in  describing  the  dinner  to  her  virtuous 
parents,  she  would  have  concluded,  "  and  one 
old  gentleman,  whom  I  didn't  know." 

No,  my  polished  friend,  whose  elegant  re- 
pose of  manner  I  yet  greatly  commend,  I  am 
content,  if  you  are.  How  much  better  it  was 
that  I  was  not  invited  to  that  dinner,  but  was 
permitted,  by  a  kind  fate,  to  furnish  a  subject 
for  Aurelia's  wit. 

There  is  one  other  advantage  in  sending 
your  fancy  to  dinner,  instead  of  going  your- 
self. It  is,  that  then  the  occasion  remains 
wholly  fair  in  your  memory.  You,  who  de- 
vote yourself  to  dining  out,  and  who  are  to  be 
daily  seen  affably  sitting  down  to  such  feasts, 
as  I  know  mainly  by  hearsay — by  the  report 
of  waiters,  guests,  and  others  who  were  pres- 
ent— you  cannot  escape  the  little  things  that 
spoil  the  picture,  and  which  the  fancy  does 
not  see. 

For  instance,  in  handing  you  the  potage  d 


DINNER    TIME.  15 

la  Bisque,  at  the  very  commencement  of  this 
dinner  to-day,  John,  the  waiter,  who  never  did 
such  a  thing  before,  did  this  time  suffer  the 
plate  to  tip,  so  that  a  little  of  that  rare  soup 
dripped  into  your  lap — just  enough  to  spoil 
those  trousers,  which  is  nothing  to  you,  be- 
cause you  can  buy  a  great  many  more 
trousers,  but  which  little  event  is  inharmonious 
with  the  fine  porcelain  dinner  service,  with  the 
fragrant  wines,  the  glittering  glass,  the  beau- 
tiful guests,  and  the  mood  of  mind  suggested 
by  all  of  these.  There  is,  in  fact,  if  you  will 
pardon  a  free  use  of  the  vernacular,  there  is  a 
grease  spot  upon  your  remembrance  of  this 
dinner. 

Or,  in  the  same  way,  and  with  the  same  kind 
of  mental  result,  you  can  easily  imagine  the 
meats  a  little  tough;  a  suspicion  of  smoke 
somewhere  in  the  sauces;  too  much  pepper, 
perhaps,  or  too  little  salt;  or  there  might  be 
the  graver  dissonance  of  claret  not  properly 
attempered,  or  a  choice  Rhenish  below  the 
average  mark,  or  the  spilling  of  some  of  that 
Arethusa  Madeira,  marvelous  for  its  innumer- 
able circumnavigations  of  the  globe,  and  for 
being  as  dry  as  the  conversation  of  the  host. 
These  things  are  not  up  to  the  high  level  of 
the  dinner ;  for  wherever  Aurelia  dines,  all  ac- 


l6  PRUE    AND    I. 

cessories  should  be  as  perfect  in  their  kind  as 
she,  the  principal,  is  in  hers. 

That  reminds  me  of  a  possible  dissonance 
worse  than  all.  Suppose  that  soup  had 
trickled  down  the  unimaginable  berthe  of  Au- 
relia's  dress  (since  it  might  have  done  so),  in- 
stead of  wasting  itself  upon  your  trousers! 
Could  even  the  irreproachable  elegance  of 
your  manners  have  contemplated,  unmoved,  a 
grease  spot  upon  your  remembrance  of  the 
peerless  Aurelia? 

You  smile,  of  course,  and  remind  me  that 
that  lady's  manners  are  so  perfect  that,  if  she 
drank  poison,  she  would  wipe  her  mouth  after 
it  as  gracefully  as  ever.  How  much  more 
then,  you  say,  in  the  case  of  such  a  slight  con- 
tretemps as  spotting  her  dress,  would  she  ap- 
pear totally  unmoved. 

So  she  would,  undoubtedly.  She  would 
be,  and  look,  as  pure  as  ever;  but,  my  young 
friend,  her  dress  would  not.  Once  I  dropped 
a  pickled  oyster  in  the  lap  of  my  Prue,  who 
wore,  on  the  occasion,  her  sea-green  silk 
gown.  I  did  not  love  my  Prue  the  less;  but 
there  certainly  was  a  very  unhandsome  spot 
upon  her  dress.  And  although  I  know  my 
Prue  to  be  spotless,  yet,  whenever  I  recall  that 
day,  I  see  her  in  a  spotted  gown,  and  I  would 


DINNER    TIME.  l^ 

prefer  never  to  have  been  obliged  to  think  of 
her  in  such  a  garment. 

Can  you  not  make  the  application  to  the 
case,  very  likely  to  happen,  of  some  disfigure- 
ment of  that  exquisite  toilette  of  Aurelia's? 
In  going  downstairs,  for  instance,  why  should 
not  heavy  old  Mr.  Carbuncle,  who  is  coming 
close  behind  with  Mrs.  Peony,  both  very 
eager  for  dinner,  tread  upon  the  hem  of  that 
garment  which  my  lips  would  grow  pale  to 
kiss?  The  august  Aurelia,  yielding  to  natural 
laws,  would  be  drawn  suddenly  backward — a 
very  undignified  movement — and  the  dress 
would  be  dilapidated.  There  would  be  apolo- 
gies, and  smiles,  and  forgiveness,  and  pinning 
up  the  pieces,  nor  would  there  be  the  faintest 
feeling  of  awkwardness  or  vexation  in  Au- 
relia's mind.  But  to  you,  looking  on,  and, 
beneath  all  that  pure  show  of  waistcoat,  curs- 
ing old  Carbuncle's  carelessness,  this  tearing 
of  dresses  and  repair  of  the  toilette  is  by  no 
means  a  poetic  and  cheerful  spectacle.  Nay, 
the  very  impatience  that  it  produces  in  your 
mind  jars  upon  the  harmony  of  the  mo- 
ment. 

You  will  respond,  with  proper  scorn,  that 
you  are  not  so  absurdly  fastidious  as  to  heed 
the  little  necessary  drawbacks  of  social  meet- 


l8  PRUE    AND    I. 

ings,  and  that  you  have  not  much  regard  for 
"  the  harmony  of  the  occasion  "  (which  phrase 
I  fear  you  will  repeat  in  a  sneering  tone). 
You  will  do  very  right  in  saying  this ;  and  it  is 
a  remark  to  which  I  shall  give  all  the  hospi- 
tality of  my  mind,  and  I  do  so  because  I 
heartily  coincide  in  it.  I  hold  a  man  to  be 
very  foolish  who  will  not  eat  a  good  dinner 
because  the  tablecloth  is  not  clean,  or  who 
cavils  at  the  spots  upon  the  sun.  But  still  a 
man  who  does  not  apply  his  eye  to  a  telescope, 
or  some  kind  of  prepared  medium,  does  not 
see  those  spots,  while  he  has  just  as  much 
light  and  heat  as  he  who  does. 

So  it  is  with  me.  I  walk  in  the  avenue,  and 
eat  all  the  delightful  dinners,  without  seeing 
the  spots  upon  the  tablecloth,  and  behold  all 
the  beautiful  Aurelias  without  swearing  at  old 
Carbuncle.  I  am  the  guest  who,  for  the  small 
price  of  invisibility,  drinks  only  the  best  wines, 
and  talks  only  to  the  most  agreeable  people. 
That  is  something,  I  can  tell  you,  for  you 
might  be  asked  to  lead  out  old  Mrs.  Peony. 
My  fancy  slips  in  between  you  and  Aurelia, 
sit  you  never  so  closely  together.  It  not  only 
hears  what  she  says,  but  it  perceives  what  she 
thinks  and  feels.  It  lies  like  a  bee  in  her 
flowery  thoughts,  sucking  all  their  honey.  If 


DINNER    TIME.  19 

table,  it  will  not  see  them.  It  knows  only  the 
good  and  fair.  As  I  stroll  in  the  fading  light 
and  observe  the  stately  houses,  my  fancy  be- 
lieves the  host  equal  to  his  house,  and  the 
courtesy  of  his  wife  more  agreeable  than  her 
conservatory. 

It  will  not  believe  that  the  pictures  on  the 
wall  and  the  statues  in  the  corners  shame  the 
guests.  It  will  not  allow  that  they  are  less 
than  noble.  It  hears  them  speak  gently  of 
error,  and  warmly  of  worth.  It  knows  that 
they  commend  heroism  and  devotion,  and 
reprobate  insincerity.  My  fancy  is  convinced 
that  the  guests  are  not  only  feasted  upon  the 
choicest  fruits  of  every  land  and  season,  but 
are  refreshed  by  a  consciousness  of  greater 
loveliness  and  grace  in  human  character. 

Now  you,  who  actually  go  to  the  dinner, 
may  not  entirely  agree  with  the  view  my  fancy 
takes  of  that  entertainment.  Is  it  not,  there- 
fore, rather  your  loss?  Or,  to  put  it  in  an- 
other way,  ought  I  to  envy  you  the  discovery 
that  the  guests  are  shamed  by  the  statues  and 
pictures — yes,  and  by  the  spoons  and  forks 
also,  if  they  should  chance  neither  to  be  so 
genuine  nor  so  useful  as  those  instruments? 
And,  worse  than  this,  when  your  fancy  wishes 
there  are  unhandsome  or  unfeeling  guests  at 


20  PRUE    AND    I. 

to  enjoy  the  picture  which  mine  forms  of  that 
feast,  it  cannot  do  so,  because  you  have  fool- 
ishly interpolated  the  fact  between  the  dinner 
and  your  fancy. 

Of  course,  by  this  time  it  is  late  twilight, 
and  the  spectacle  I  enjoyed  is  almost  over. 
But  not  quite,  for  as  I  return  slowly  along 
the  streets,  the  windows  are  open,  and  only  a 
thin  haze  of  lace  or  muslin  separates  me  from 
the  paradise  within. 

I  see  the  graceful  cluster  of  girls  hovering 
over  the  piano,  and  the  quiet  groups  of  the 
elders  in  easy  chairs,  around  little  tables.  I 
cannot  hear  what  is  said,  nor  plainly  see  the 
faces.  But  some  hoyden  evening  wind,  more 
daring  than  I,  abruptly  parts  the  cloud  to  look 
in,  and  out  comes  a  gush  of  light,  music,  and 
fragrance,  so  that  I  shrink  away  into  the  dark, 
that  I  may  n«ot  seem,  even  by  chance,  to  have 
invaded  that  privacy. 

Suddenly  there  is  singing.  It  is  Aurelia, 
who  does  not  cope  with  the  Italian  prima 
donna,  nor  sing  indifferentlv  to-night,  what 
was  sung  superbly  last  evening  at  the  opera. 
She  has  a  strange,  low,  sweet  voice,  as  if  she 
only  sang  in  the  twilight.  It  is  the  ballad  of 
"  Allan  Percy  "  that  she  sings.  There  is  no 
dainty  applause  of  kid  gloves,  when  it  is 


DINNER    TIME.  21 

ended,  but  silence  follows  the  singing,  like  a 
tear. 

Then  you,  my  young  friend,  ascend  into  the 
drawing  room,  and,  after  a  little  graceful  gos- 
sip, retire;  or  you  wait,  possibly,  to  hand  Au- 
relia  into  her  carriage,  and  to  arrange  a  waltz 
for  to-morrow  evening.  She  smiles,  you  bow, 
and  it  is  over.  But  it  is  not  yet  over  with  me. 
My  fancy  still  follows  her,  and,  like  a  pro- 
phetic dream,  rehearses  her  destiny.  For,  as 
the  carriage  rolls  away  into  the  darkness  and 
I  return  homeward,  how  can  my  fancy  help 
rolling  away  also,  into  the  dim  future,  watch- 
ing her  go  down  the  years? 

Upon  my  way  home  I  see  her  in  a  thousand 
new  situations.  My  fancy  says  to  me,  "  The 
beauty  of  this  beautiful  woman  is  heaven's 
stamp  upon  virtue.  She  will  be  equal  to 
every  chance  that  shall  befall  her,  and  she  is 
so  radiant  and  charming  in  the  circle  of  pros- 
perity, only  because  she  has  that  irresistible 
simplicity  and  fidelity  of  character,  which  can 
also  pluck  the  sting  from  adversity.  Do  you 
not  see,  you  wan  old  bookkeeper  in  faded  cra- 
vat, that  in  a  poor  man's  house  this  superb 
Aurelia  would  be  more  stately  than  sculpture, 
more  beautiful  than  painting,  and  more  grace- 
ful than  the  famous  vases.  Would  her  hus- 


22  PRUE    AND   I. 

band  regret  the  opera  if  she  sang  '  Allan 
Percy  '  to  him  in  the  twilight  ?  Would  he  not 
feel  richer  than  the  Poets,  when  his  eyes  rose 
from  their  jeweled  pages,  to  fall  again  dazzled 
by  the  splendor  of  his  wife's  beauty  ?  " 

At  this  point  in  my  reflections  I  sometimes 
run,  rather  violently,  against  a  lamp  post,  and 
then  proceed  along  the  street  more  sedately. 

It  is  yet  early  when  I  reach  home,  where  my 
Prue  awaits  me.  The  children  are  asleep,  and 
the  trousers  mended.  The  admirable  woman 
is  patient  of  my  idiosyncracies,  and  asks  me  if 
I  have  had  a  pleasant  walk,  and  if  there  were 
many  fine  dinners  to-day,  as  if  I  had  been  ex- 
pected at  a  dozen  tables.  She  even  asks  me  if 
I  have  seen  the  beautiful  Aurelia  (for  there  is 
always  some  Aurelia),  and  inquires  what  dress 
she  wore.  I  respond,  and  dilate  upon  what  I 
have  seen.  Prue  listens,  as  the  children  listen 
to  her  fairy  tales.  We  discuss  the  little  stories 
that  penetrate  our  retirement,  of  the  great 
people  who  actually  dine  out.  Prue,  with  fine 
womanly  instinct,  declares  it  is  a  shame  that 

Aurelia  should  smile  for  a  moment  upon ,. 

yes,  even  upon  you,  my  friend  of  the  irre- 
proachable manners! 

"  I  know  him,"  says  my  simple  Prue ;  "  I 
have  watched  his  cold  courtesy,  his  insincere 


DINNER    TIME.  2$ 

devotion.  I  have  seen  him  acting  in  the 
boxes  at  the  opera,  much  more  adroitly  than 
the  singers  upon  the  stage.  I  have  read  his 
determination  to  marry  Aurelia;  and  I  shall 
not  be  surprised/'  concludes  my  tender  wife 
sadly,  "  if  he  wins  her  at  last,  by  tiring  her 
out,  or,  by  secluding  her  by  his  constant  devo- 
tion from  the  homage  of  other  men,  convinces 
her  that  she  had  better  marry  him,  since  it  is 
so  dismal  to  live  on  unmarried." 

And  so,  my  friend,  at  the  moment  when 
the  bouquet  you  ordered  is  arriving  at  Au- 
relia's  house,  and  she  is  sitting  before  the  glass 
while  her  maid  arranges  the  last  flower  in  her 
hair,  my  darling  Prue,  whom  you  will  never 
hear  of,  is  shedding  tears  over  your  probable 
union,  and  I  am  sitting  by,  adjusting  my 
cravat  and  incontinently  clearing  my  throat. 

It  is  rather  a  ridiculous  business,  I  allow ;  yet 
you  will  smile  at  it  tenderly,  rather  than  scorn- 
fully, if  you  remember  that  it  shows  how 
closely  linked  we  creatures  are,  without  know- 
ing it,  and  that  more  hearts  than  we  dream  of 
enjoy  our  happiness  and  share  our  sorrow. 

Thus,  I  dine  at  great  tables  uninvited,  and, 
unknown,  converse  with  the  famous  beauties. 
If  Aurelia  is  at  last  engaged  (but  who  is 
worthy?)  she  will,  with  even  greater  care,. 


24  PRUE    AND    I. 

arrange  that  wondrous  toilette,  will  teach  that 
lace  to  fall  more  alluring,  those  gems  a 
sweeter  light.  But  even  then,  as  she  rolls  to 
dinner  in  her  carriage,  glad  that  she  is  fair, 
not  for  her  own  sake  nor  for  the  world's,  but 
for  that  of  a  single  youth  (who,  I  hope, has  not 
been  smoking  at  the  club  all  the  morning),  I, 
sauntering  upon  the  sidewalk,  see  her  pass,  I 
pay  homage  to  her  beauty,  and  her  lover  can 
do  no  more;  and  if,  perchance,  my  garments 
— which  must  seem  quaint  to  her,  with  their 
shining  knees  and  carefully  brushed  elbows; 
my  white  cravat,  careless,  yet  prim ;  my  medi- 
tative movements,  as  I  put  my  stick  under  my 
arm  to  pare  an  apple,  and  not,  I  hope,  this  time 
to  fall  into  the  street — should  remind  her,  in 
her  spring  of  youth,  and  beauty,  and  love,  that 
there  are  age,  and  care,  and  poverty,  also; 
then,  perhaps,  the  good  fortune  of  the  meet- 
ing is  not  wholly  mine. 

For,  O  beautiful  Aurelia^  two  of  these 
things,  at  least,  must  come  even  to  you.  There 
will  be  a  time  when  you  will  no  longer  go  out 
to  dinner,  or  only  very  quietly,  in  the  family.  I 
shall  be  gone  then ;  but  other  old  bookkeepers 
in  white  cravats  will  inherit  my  tastes,  and 
saunter,  on  summer  afternoons,  to  see  what  I 
loved  to  see. 


DINNER    TIME.  25 

They  will  not  pause,  I  fear,  in  buying  ap- 
ples, to  look  at  the  old  lady  in  venerable  cap,, 
who  is  rolling  by  in  the  carriage.  They  will 
worship  another  Aurelia.  You  will  not  wear 
diamonds  or  opals  any  more,  only  one  pearl 
upon  your  blue-veined  ringer — your  engage- 
ment ring.  Grave  clergymen  and  antiquated 
beaux  will  hand  you  down  to  dinner,  and  the 
group  of  polished  youth,  who  gather  around 
the  yet  unborn  Aurelia  of  that  day,  will  look 
at  you,  sitting  quietly  upon  the  sofa,  and  say 
softly,  "  She  must  have  been  very  handsome  in 
her  time." 

All  this  must  be:  for  consider  how  few 
years  since  it  was  your  grandmother  who  was- 
the  belle,  by  whose  side  the  handsome  young; 
men  longed  to  sit  and  pass  expressive  mottoes. 
Your  grandmother  was  the  Aurelia  of  a  half- 
century  ago,  although  you  cannot  fancy  her 
young.  She  is  indissolubly  associated  in  your 
mind  with  caps  and  dark  dresses.  You  can 
believe  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  or  Nell  Gwynr 
or  Cleopatra,  to  have  been  young  and  bloom- 
ing, although  they  belong  to  old  and  dead 
centuries,  but  not  your  grandmother.  Think 
of  those  who  shall  believe  the  same  of  you — 
you,  who  to-day  are  the  very  flower  of  youth. 

Might  I  plead  with  you,  Aurelia — I,  wha 


2$  PRUE    AND    I. 

would  be  too  happy  to  receive  one  of  those 
graciously  beaming  bows  that  I  see  you  be- 
stow upon  young  men,  in  passing — I  would 
ask  you  to  bear  that  thought  with  you,  al- 
ways, not  to  sadden  your  sunny  smile,  but  to 
give  it  a  more  subtle  grace.  Wear  in  your 
summer  garland  this  little  leaf  of  rue.  It  will 
not  be  the  skull  at  the  feast,  it  will  rather  be 
the  tender  thoughtfulness  in  the  face  of  the 
young  Madonna. 

For  the  years  pass  like  summer  clouds,  Au- 
relia,  and  the  children  of  yesterday  are  the 
wives  and  mothers  of  to-day.  Even  I  do 
sometimes  discover  the  mild  eyes  of  my  Prue 
fixed  pensively  upon  my  face,  as  if  searching 
for  the  bloom  which  she  remembers  there  in 
the  days,  long  ago,  when  we  were  young. 
She  will  never  see  it  there  again,  any  more 
than  the  flowers  she  held  in  her  hand,  in  our 
old  spring  rambles.  Yet  the  tear  that  slowly 
gathers  as  she  gazes,  is  not  grief  that  the 
bloom  has  faded  from  my  cheek,  but  the  sweet 
consciousness  that  it  can  never  fade  from  my 
heart;  and  as  her  eyes  fall  upon  her  work 
again,  or  the  children  climb  he*  lap  to  hear  the 
old  fairy  tales  they  already  know  by  heart,  my 
wife  Prue  is  dearer  to  me  than  the  sweetheart 
of  those  days  long  ago. 


MY    CHATEAUX. 

"  In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Kahn 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree." 

— Coleridge 

I  AM  the  owner  of  great  estates.  Many  of 
them  lie  in  the  West ;  but  the  greater  part  are 
in  Spain.  You  may  see  my  western  posses- 
sions any  evening  at  sunset  when  their  spires 
and  battlements  flash  against  the  horizon. 

It  gives  me  a  feeling  of  pardonable  impor- 
tance, as  a  proprietor,  that  they  are  visible; 
to  my  eyes,  at  least,  from  any  part  of  the  world 
in  which  I  chance  to  be.  In  my  long  voyage 
around  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  to  India  (the 
only  voyage  I  ever  made,  when  i  was  a  boy 
and  a  supercargo),  if  I  felt  homesick  or  sank 
into  a  reverie  of  all  the  pleasant  homes  I  had 
left  behind,  I  had  but  to  wait  until  sunset,  and 
then  looking  towards  the  West,  I  beheld  my 
clustering  pinnacles  and  towers  brightly  burn- 
ished as  if  to  salute  and  welcome  me. 

So,  in  the  city,  if  I  get  vexed  and  wearied,. 


28  PRUE    AND    I. 

and  cannot  find  my  wonted  solace  in  sallying 
forth  at  dinner-time  to  contemplate  the  gay 
world  of  youth  and  beauty  hurrying  to  the 
congress  of  fashion — or  if  I  observe  that  years 
are  deepening  their  tracks  around  the  eyes  of 
my  wife,  Prue,  I  go  quietly  up  to  the  house- 
top, toward  evening,  and  refresh  myself  with 
a  distant  prospect  of  my  estates.  It  is  as  dear 
to  me  as  that  of  Eton  to  the  poet  Gray ;  and,  if 
I  sometimes  wonder  at  such  moments  whether 
I  shall  find  those  realms  as  fair  as  they  appear, 
I  am  suddenly  reminded  that  the  night  air  may 
be  noxious,  and  descending,  I  enter  the  little 
parlor  where  Prue  sits  stitching,  and  surprise 
that  precious  woman  by  exclaiming  with  the 
poet's  pensive  enthusiasm: 

"  Thought  would  destroy  their  Paradise, 
No  more;  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
'Tis  folly  to  be  wise." 

Columbus,  also,  had  possessions  in  the 
West;  and  as  I  read  aloud  the  romantic  story 
of  his  life,  my  voice  quivers  when  I  come  to 
the  point  in  which  it  is  related  that  sweet  odors 
of  the  land  mingled  with  the  sea-air,  as  the 
admiral's  fleet  approached  the  shores ;  that 
tropical  birds  flew  out  and  fluttered  around 
the  ships,  glittering  in  the  sun,  the  gorgeous 


MY    CHATEAUX.  29 

promises  of  the  new  country;  that  boughs, 
perhaps  with  blossoms  not  all  decayed,  floated 
out  to  welcome  the  strange  wood  from  which 
the  craft  were  hollowed.  Then  I  cannot  re- 
strain myself.  I  think  of  the  gorgeous  vis- 
ions I  have  seen  before  I  have  even  under- 
taken the  journey  to  the  West,  and  I  cry  aloud 
to  Prue: 

"  What  sun-bright  birds,  and  gorgeous  blos- 
soms, and  celestial  odors  will  float  out  to  us, 
my  Prue,  as  we  approach  our  western  posses- 
sions !  " 

The  placid  Prue  raises  her  eyes  to  mine  with 
a  reproof  so  delicate  that  it  could  not  be 
trusted  to  words ;  and,  after  a  moment,  she  re- 
sumes her  knitting  and  I  proceed. 

These  are  my  western  estates,  but  my  fin- 
est castles  are  in  Spain.  It  is  a  country  fa- 
mously romantic,  and  my  castles  are  all  of  per- 
fect proportions,  and  appropriately  set  in  the 
most  picturesque  situations.  I  have  never 
been  to  Spain  myself,  but  I  have  naturally  con- 
versed much  with  travelers  to  that  country ; 
although,  I  must  allow,  without  deriving  from 
them  much  substantial  information  about  my 
property  there.  The  wisest  of  them  told 
me  that  there  were  more  holders  of  real  estate 
in  Spain  than  in  any  other  region  he  had  ever 


3O  PRUE    AND   I. 

heard  of,  and  they  are  all  great  proprietors. 
Every  one  of  them  possesses  a  multitude  of 
the  stateliest  castles.  From  conversation  with 
them  you  easily  gather  that  each  one  considers 
his  own  castles  much  the  largest  and  in  the 
loveliest  positions.  And,  after  I  had  heard 
this  said,  I  verified  it,  by  discovering  that  all 
my  immediate  neighbors  in  the  city  were  great 
Spanish  proprietors. 

One  day  as  I  raised  my  head  from  entering 
some  long  and  tedious  accounts  in  my  books, 
and  began  to  reflect  that  the  quarter  was  ex- 
piring, and  that  I  must  begin  to  prepare  the 
balance  sheet,  I  observed  my  subordinate,  in 
office  but  not  in  years  ( for  poor  old  Titbottom 
ivill  never  see  sixty  again!),  leaning  on  his 
hand,  and  much  abstracted. 

"Are  you  not  well,  Titbottom!"  asked  I. 

"  Perfectly,  but  I  was  just  building  a  castle 
in  Spain,"  said  he. 

I  looked  at  his  rusty  coat,  his  faded  hands, 
his  sad  eye,  and  white  hair,  for  a  moment,  in 
great  surprise,  and  then  inquired. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  own  property  there 
too?" 

He  shook  his  head  silently ;  and  still  leaning 
on  his  hand,  with  an  expression  in  his  eye,  as 
if  he  were  looking  upon  the  most  fertile  es- 


MY    CHATEAUX.  3! 

tate  of  Andalusia,  he  went  on  making  his 
plans  ;  laying  out  his  gardens,  I  suppose,  build- 
ing terraces  for  the  vines,  determining  a  li- 
brary with  a  southern  exposure,  and  resolving 
which  should  be  the  tapestried  chamber. 

"  What  a  singular  whim,"  thought  I  as  I 
watched  Titbottom  and  filled  up  a  check  for 
four  hundred  dollars,  my  quarterly  salary, 
"  that  a  man  who  owns  castles  in  Spain  should 
be  deputy  bookkeeper  at  nine  hundred  dollars 
a  year !  " 

When  I  went  home  I  ate  my  dinner  silently, 
and  afterward  sat  for  a  long  time  upon  the 
roof  of  the  house,  looking  at  my  western  prop- 
erty, and  thinking  of  Titbottom. 

It  is  remarkable  that  none  of  the  proprietors 
have  ever  been  to  Spain  to  take  possession 
and  report  to  the  rest  of  us  the  state  of  our 
property  there.  I,  of  course,  cannot  go,  I  am 
too  much  engaged.  So  is  Titbottom.  And 
I  find  it  is  the  case  with  all  the  proprietors. 
We  have  so  much  to  detain  us  at  home  that 
we  cannot  get  away.  But  it  is  always  so  with 
rich  men.  Prtie  sighed  once  as  she-  sat  at 
the  window  and  saw  Bourne,  the  millionaire, 
'the  president  of  innumerable  companies,  and 
manager  and  director  of  all  the  charitable  so- 
cieties in  town,  going  by  with  wrinkled  brow 


32  PRUE    AND    I. 

and  hurried  step.  I  asked  her  why  she 
sighed. 

"  Because  I  was  remembering  that  my 
mother  used  to  tell  me  not  to  desire  great 
riches,  for  they  occasioned  great  cares,"  said 
she. 

"  They  do  indeed,"  answered  I,  with  em- 
phasis, remembering  Titbottom,  and  the  im- 
possibility of  looking  after  my  Spanish  es- 
tates. 

Prue  turned  and  looked  at  me  with  mild 
surprise;  but  I  saw  that  her  mind  had  gone 
down  the  street  with  Bourne.  I  could  never 
discover  if  he  held  much  Spanish  stock.  But 
I  think  he  does.  All  the  Spanish  proprietors 
have  a  certain  expression.  Bourne  has  it  to 
a  remarkable  degree.  It  is  a  kind  of  look,  as 
if,  in  fact,  a  man's  mind  were  in  Spain. 
Bourne  was  an  old  lover  of  Prue's,  and  he  is 
not  married,  which  is  strange  for  a  man  in  his 
position. 

It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  say  how  I  know  so 
much,  as  I  certainly  do,  about  my  castles  in 
Spain.  The  sun  always  shines  upon  them. 
They  stand  lofty  and  fair  in  a  luminous, 
golden  atmosphere,  a  little  hazy  and  dreamy, 
perhaps,  like  the  Indian  summer,  but  in  which 
no  gales  blow  and  there  are  no  tempests.  All 


MY    CHATEAUX.  33 

the  sublime  mountains,  and  beautiful  valleys, 
and  soft  landscape,  that  I  have  not  yet  seen, 
are  to  be  found  in  the  grounds.  They  com- 
mand a  noble  view  of  the  Alps ;  so  fine,  indeed, 
that  I  should  be  quite  content  with  the  pros- 
pect of  them  from  the  highest  tower  of  my 
castle,  and  not  care  to  go  to  Switzerland. 

The  neighboring  ruins,  too,  are  as  pictur- 
esque as  those  of  Italy,  and  my  desire  of  stand- 
ing in  the  Coliseum,  and  of  seeing  the  shat- 
tered arches  of  the  Aqueducts  stretching 
along  the  Campagna  and  melting  into  the  Al- 
ban  Mount,  is  entirely  quenched.  The  rich 
gloom  of  my  orange  groves  is  gilded  by 
fruit  as  brilliant  of  complexion  and  exquis- 
ite of  flavor  as  any  that  ever  dark-eyed  Sor- 
rento girls,  looking  over  the  high  plastered 
walls  of  southern  Italy,  hand  to  the  youthful 
travelers,  climbing  on  donkeys  up  the  narrow 
lane  beneath. 

The  Nile  flows  through  my  grounds.  The 
Desert  lies  upon  their  edge,  and  Damascus 
stands  in  my  garden.  I  am  given  to  under- 
stand, also,  that  the  Parthenon  has  been  re- 
moved to  my  Spanish  possessions.  The 
Golden  Horn  is  my  fish-preserve ;  my  flocks  of 
golden  fleece  are  pastured  on  the  plain  of 
Marathon,  and  the  honey  of  Hymettus  is  dis- 


34  PRUE    AND    I. 

tilled  from  the  flowers  that  grow  in  the  vale  of 
Enna — all  in  my  Spanish  domains. 

From  the  windows  of  those  castles  look  the 
beautiful  women  whom  I  have  never  seen, 
whose  portraits  the  poets  have  painted.  They 
wait  for  me  there,  and  chiefly  the  fair-haired 
child,  lost  to  my  eyes  so  long  ago,  now 
bloomed  into  an  impossible  beauty.  The 
lights  that  never  shone,  glance  at  evening  in 
the  vaulted  halls,  upon  banquets  that  were 
never  spread.  The  bands  I  have  never  col- 
lected, play  all  night  long,  and  enchant  the 
brilliant  company,  that  was  never  assembled, 
into  silence. 

In  the  long  summer  mornings  the  children 
that  I  never  had,  play  in  the  gardens  that  I 
never  planted.  I  hear  their  sweet  voices 
sounding  low  and  far  away,  calling,  "  Father ! 
Father ! "  I  see  the  lost  fair-haired  girl, 
grown  now  into  a  woman,  descending  the- 
stately  stairs  of  my  castle  in  Spain,  stepping 
out  upon  the  lawn,  and  playing  with  those 
children.  They  bound  away  together  down, 
the  garden;  but  those  voices  linger,  this  time 
calling,  "Mother!  Mother!" 

But  there  is  a  stranger  magic  than  this  in 
my  Spanish  estates.  The  lawny  slopes  on 
which,  when  a  child,  I  played,  in  my  father's 


MY   CHATEAUX.  35 

old  country  place,  which  was  sold  when  he 
failed,  are  all  there,  and  not  a  flower  faded, 
nor  a  blade  of  grass  sere.  The  green  leaves 
have  not  fallen  from  the  spring  woods  of 
half  a  century  ago,  and  a  gorgeous  autumn 
has  blazed  undimmed  for  fifty  years,  among 
the  trees  I  remember. 

Chestnuts  are  not  especially  sweet  to  my 
palate  now,  but  those  with  which  I  used  to 
prick  my  fingers  when  gathering  them  in  New 
Hampshire  woods  are  exquisite  as  ever  to  my 
taste,  when  I  think  of  eating  them  in  Spain. 
I  never  ride  horseback  now  at  home;  but  in 
Spain,  when  I  think  of  it,  I  bound  over  all  the 
fences  in  the  country,  barebacked  upon  the 
wildest  horses.  Sermons  I  am  apt  to  find  a 
little  soporific  in  this  country;  but  in  Spain  I 
should  listen  as  reverently  as  ever,  for  pro- 
prietors must  set  a  good  example  on  their 
estates. 

Plays  are  insufferable  to  me  here — Prue 
and  I  never  go.  Prue,  indeed,  is  not  quite 
sure  it  is  moral ;  but  the  theaters  in  my  Span- 
ish castles  are  of  a  prodigious  splendor,  and 
when  I  think  of  going  there,  Prue  sits  in  a 
front  box  with  me — a  kind  of  royal  box — the 
good  woman,  attired  in  such  wise  as  I  have 
never  seen  her  here,  while  I  wear  my  white 


36  PRUE    AND    I. 

waistcoat,  which  in  Spain  has  no  appearance 
of  mending,  but  dazzles  with  immortal  new- 
ness, and  is  a  miraculous  fit. 

Yes,  and  in  those  castles  in  Spain,  Prue  is 
not  the  placid,  breeches-patching  helpmate 
with  whom  you  are  acquainted,  but  her  face 
has  a  bloom  which  we  both  remember,  and 
her  movement  a  grace  which  my  Spanish 
swans  emulate,  and  her  voice  a  music  sweeter 
than  those  that  orchestras  discourse.  She  is 
always  there  what  she  seemed  to  me  when  I 
fell  in  love  with  her,  many  and  many  years 
ago.  The  neighbors  called  her  then  a  nice, 
capable  girl ;  and  certainly  she  did  knit  and 
darn  with  a  zeal  and  success  to  which  my  feet 
and  my  legs  have  testified  for  nearly  half  a 
century.  But  she  could  spin  a  finer  web  than 
ever  came  from  cotton,  and  in  its  subtle 
meshes  my  heart  was  entangled,  and  there  has 
reposed  softly  and  happily  ever  since.  The 
neighbors  declared  she  could  make  pudding 
and  cake  better  than  any  girl  of  her  age;  but 
stale  bread  from  Prue's  hand  was  ambrosia  to 
my  palate. 

"  She  who  makes  everything  well,  even  to- 
making  neighbors  speak  well  of  her,  will 
surely  make  a  good  wife,"  said  I  to  myself 


MY    CHATEAUX.  37 

when  I  knew  her ;  and  the  echo  of  a  half  cen- 
tury answers,  "  a  good  wife." 

So,  when  I  meditate  my  Spanish  castles,  I 
see  Prue  in  them  as  my  heart  saw  her  standing 
by  her  father's  door.  "  Age  cannot  wither 
her."  There  is  a  magic  in  the  Spanish  air  that 
paralyzes  Time.  He  glides  by,  unnoticed  and 
unnoticing.  I  greatly  admire  the  Alps,  which 
I  see  so  distinctly  from  my  Spanish  windows ; 
I  delight  in  the  taste  of  the  southern  fruit  that 
ripens  upon  my  terraces;  I  enjoy  the  pensive 
shade  of  the  Italian  ruins  in  my  gardens;  I 
like  to  shoot  crocodiles,  and  talk  with  the 
Sphinx  upon  the  shores  of  the  Nile,  flowing 
through  my  domain ;  I  am  glad  to  drink  sher- 
bet in  Damascus,  and  fleece  my  flocks  on  the 
plains  of  Marathon;  but  I  would  resign  all 
these  forever  rather  than  part  with  that  Span- 
ish portrait  of  Prue  for  a  day.  Nay,  have  I 
not  resigned  them  all  forever,  to  live  with  that 
portrait's  changing  original? 

I  have  often  wondered  how  I  should  reach 
my  castles.  The  desire  of  going  comes  over 
me  very  strongly  sometimes,  and  I  endeavor 
to  see  how  I  can  arrange  my  affairs,  so  as  to 
get  away.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  not  quite 
sure  of  the  route — I  mean,  to  that  particular 
part  of  Spain  in  which  my  estates  lie.  I  have 


38  PRUE    AND    I. 

inquired  very  particularly,  but  nobody  seems 
to  know  precisely.  One  morning  I  met  young 
Aspen,  trembling  with  excitement. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  I  with  inter- 
est, for  I  knew  that  he  held  a  great  deal  of 
Spanish  stock. 

"  Oh !  "  said  he,  "  I'm  going  out  to  take  pos- 
session. I  have  found  the  way  to  my  castles 
in  Spain." 

"  Dear  me !  "  I  answered,  with  the  blood 
streaming  into  my  face ;  and,  heedless'  of  Prue,. 
pulling  my  glove  until  it  ripped — "  what  is 
it?" 

"  The  direct  route  is  through  California," 
answered  he. 

"  But  then  you  have  the  sea  to  cross  after- 
ward," said  I,  remembering  the  map. 

"  Not  at  all,"  answered  Aspen,  "  the  road 
runs  along  the  shore  of  the  Sacramento 
River." 

He  darted  away  from  me,  and  I  did  not 
meet  him  again.  I  was  very  curious  to  know 
if  he  arrived  safely  in  Spain,  and  was  expect- 
ing every  day  to  hear  news  from  him  of  my 
property  there,  when,  one  evening,  I  bought 
an  extra  full  of  California  news,  and  the  first 
thing  upon  which  my  eye  fell  was  this :  "  Died, 
in  San  Francisco,  Edward  Aspen,  Esq.,  aged 


MY   CHATEAUX.  39? 

thirty-five."  There  is  a  large  body  of  the 
Spanish  stockholders  who  believe  with  Aspen, 
and  sail  for  California  every  week.  I  have 
not  yet  heard  of  their  arrival  out  at  their  cas- 
tles, but  I  suppose  they  are  so  busy  with  their 
own  affairs  there,  that  they  have  no  time  to 
write  to  the  rest  of  us  about  the  condition  of 
our  property. 

There  was  my  wife's  cousin,  too,  Jonathan 
Bud,  who  is  a  good,  honest  youth  from  the 
country,  and,  after  a  few  weeks'  absence,  he 
burst  into  the  office  one  day,  just  as  I  was  bal- 
ancing my  books,  and  whispered  to  me,, 
eagerly : 

"  I've  found  my  castle  in  Spain." 

I  put  the  blotting-paper  in  the  leaf  de- 
liberately, for  I  was  wiser  now  than  when 
Aspen  had  excited  me,  and  looked  at  my  wife's 
cousin,  Jonathan  Bud,  inquiringly. 

"  Polly  Bacon,"  whispered  he,  winking. 

I  continued  the  interrogative  glance. 

"  She's  going  to  marry  me,  and  she'll  show 
me  the  way  to  Spain,"  said  Jonathan  Bud 
hilariously. 

"  She'll  make  you  walk  Spanish,  Jonathan 
Bud,"  said  I. 

And  so  she  does.  He  makes  no  more  hila- 
rious remarks.  He  never  bursts  into  a  room. 


40  PRUE    AND    I. 

He  does  not  ask  us  to  dinner.  He  says  that 
Mrs.  Bud  does  not  like  smoking.  Mrs.  Bud 
"has  nerves  and  babies.  She  has  a  way  of  say- 
ing "  Mr.  Bud !  "  which  destroys  conversa- 
tion, and  casts  a  gloom  upon  society. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  Bourne,  the  million- 
aire, must  have  ascertained  the  safest  and  most 
expeditious  route  to  Spain;  so  I  stole  a  few 
minutes  one  afternoon,  and  went  into  his 
office.  He  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  writing 
rapidly,  and  surrounded  by  files  of  papers  and 
patterns,  specimens,  boxes,  everything  that 
•covers  the  tables  of  a  great  merchant.  In 
the  outer  rooms  clerks  were  writing.  Upon 
liigh  shelves  over  their  heads,  were  huge 
•chests,  covered  with  dust,  dingy  with  age, 
many  of  them,  and  all  marked  with  the  name 
of  the  firm,  in  large  black  letters — "  Bourne 
&  Dye."  They  were  all  numbered  also  with 
the  proper  year;  some  of  them  with  a  single 
capital  B,  and  dates  extending  back  into  the 
last  century,  when  old  Bourne  made  the  great 
fortune,  before  he  went  into  partnership  with 
Dye.  Everything  was  indicative  of  immense 
and  increasing  prosperity. 

There  were  several  gentlemen  in  waiting  to 
converse  with  Bourne  (we  all  call  him  so,  fa- 
miliarly, downtown),  and  I  waited  until  they 


MY    CHATEAUX.  41 

went  out.  But  others  came  in.  There  was 
no  pause  in  the  rush.  All  kinds  of  inquiries 
were  made  and  answered.  At  length  I 
stepped  up. 

"  A  moment,  please,  Mr.  Bourne." 

He  looked  up  hastily,  wished  me  good 
morning,  which  he  had  done  to  none  of  the 
others,  and  which  courtesy  I  attributed  to 
Spanish  sympathy. 

"What  is  it,  sir?"  he  asked  blandly,  but 
with  wrinkled  brow. 

"  Mr.  Bourne,  have  you  any  castles  in 
Spain  ?  "  said  I,  without  preface. 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  few  moments  with- 
out speaking,  and  without  seeming  to  see  me. 
His  brow  gradually  smoothed,  and  his  eyes, 
apparently  looking  into  the  street,  were  really, 
I  have  no  doubt,  feasting  upon  the  Spanish, 
landscape. 

"  Too  many,  too  many,"  said  he  at  length, 
musingly,  shaking  his  head,  and  without  ad- 
dressing me. 

I  suppose  he  felt  himself  too  much  extended 
— as  we  say  in  Wall  Street.  He  feared,  I 
thought,  that  he  had  too  much  impracticable 
property  elsewhere,  to  own  so  much  in  Spain ; 
so  I  asked: 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  you  consider  the 


42  PRUE    AND    I. 

shortest  and  safest  route  thither,  Mr.  Bourne? 
for,  of  course,  a  man  who  drives  such  an  im- 
mense trade  with  all  parts  of  the  world  will 
know  all  that  I  have  come  to  inquire." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  answered  he  wearily,  "  I 
have  been  trying  all  my  life  to  discover  it ;  but 
none  of  my  ships  have  ever  been  there — none 
of  my  captains  have  any  report  to  make. 
They  bring  me,  as  they  brought  my  father, 
gold  dust  from  Guinea;  ivory,  pearls,  and 
precious  stones,  from  every  part  of  the  earth ; 
but  not  a  fruit,  not  a  solitary  flower,  from  one 
of  my  castles  in  Spain.  I  have  sent  clerks, 
agents,  and  travelers  of  all  kinds,  philosophers, 
pleasure  hunters,  and  invalids,  in  all  sorts  of 
ships,  to  all  sorts  of  places,  but  none  of 
them  ever  saw  or  heard  of  my  castles, 
•except  one  young  poet,  and  he  died  in  a 
madhouse." 

"  Mr.  Bourne,  will  you  take  five  thousand 
at  ninety-seven  ? "  hastily  demanded  a  man, 
whom,  as  he  entered,  I  recognized  as  a  broker. 
"  We'll  make  a  splendid  thing  of  it." 

Bourne  nodded  assent,  and  the  broker  dis- 
appeared. 

"  Happy  man !  "  muttered  the  merchant,  as 
the  broker  went  out ;  "  he  has  no  castles  in 
Spain." 


MY    CHATEAUX.  45 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,  Mr. 
Bourne,"  said  I,  retiring. 

"  I  am  glad  you  came,"  returned  he ;  "  but 
I  assure  you,  had  I  known  the  route  you  hoped 
to  ascertain  from  me,  I  should  have  sailed 
years  and  years  ago.  People  sail  for  the- 
Northwest  Passage,  which  is  nothing  when 
you  have  found  it.  Why  don't  the  English 
Admiralty  fit  out  expeditions  to  discover  all 
our  castles  in  Spain  ?  " 

He  sat  lost  in  thought. 

"  It's  nearly  post-time,  sir,"  said  the  clerk. 

Mr.  Bourne  did  not  heed  him.  He  was 
still  musing ;  and  I  turned  to  go,  wishing  him 
good-morning.  When  I  had  nearly  reached 
the  door,  he  called  me  back,  saying,  as  if  con- 
tinuing his  .remarks : 

"  It  is  strange  that  you,  of  all  men,  should 
come  to  ask  me  this  question.  If  I  envy  any 
man,  it  is  you,  for  I  sincerely  assure  you  that 
I  supposed  you  lived  altogether  upon  your 
Spanish  estates.  I  once  thought  I  knew  the 
way  to  mine.  I  gave  directions  for  furnish- 
ing them,  and  ordered  bridal  bouquets,  which- 
were  never  used,  but  I  suppose  they  are  there 
still." 

He  paused  a  moment,  then  said  slowly  r 
"  How  is  your  wife?  " 


44  PRUE    AND    I. 

I  told  him  that  Prue  was  well — that  she  was 
.always  remarkably  well.  Mr.  Bourne  shook 
me  warmly  by  the  hand. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he.     "  Good-morning." 

I  knew  why  he  thanked  me ;  I  knew  why  he 
thought  that  I  lived  altogether  upon  my 
Spanish  estates ;  I  knew  a  little  bit  about  those 
bridal  bouquets.  Mr.  Bourne,  the  millionaire, 
was  an  old  lover  of  Prue's.  There  is  some- 
thing very  odd  about  these  Spanish  castles. 
When  I  think  of  them,  I  somehow  see  the  fair- 
liaired  girl  whom  I  knew  when  I  was  not  out 
•of  short  jackets.  When  Bourne  meditates 
them,  he  sees  Prue  and  me  quietly  at  home  in 
their  best  chambers.  It  is  a  very  singular 
thing  that  my  wife  should  live  in  another 
man's  castle  in  Spain. 

At  length  I  resolved  to  ask  Titbottom  if  he 
Tiad  ever  heard  of  the  best  route  to  our  estates. 
He  said  that  he  owned  castles,  and  sometimes 
there  was  an  expression  in  his  face,  as  if  he 
•saw  them.  I  hope  he  did.  I  should  long 
ago  have  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  observed 
the  turrets  of  my  possessions  in  the  West, 
without  alluding  to  Spain,  if  I  had  not  feared 
"he  would  suppose  I  was  mocking  his  poverty. 
T  hope  his  poverty  has  not  turned  his  head, 
for  he  is  very  forlorn. 


MY    CHATEAUX.  4$ 

One  Sunday  I  went  with  him  a  few  miles 
into  the  country.  It  was  a  soft,  bright  day;, 
the  fields  and  hills  lay  turned  to  the  sky,  as  if 
every  leaf  and  blade  of  grass  were  nerves,, 
bared  to  the  touch  of  the  sun.  I  almost  felt 
the  ground  warm  under  my  feet.  The  mead- 
ows waved  and  glittered,  the  lights  and  shad- 
ows were  exquisite,  and  the  distant  hills- 
seemed  only  to  remove  the  horizon  farther- 
away.  As  we  strolled  along,  picking  wild 
flowers,  for  it  was  in  summer,  I  was  thinking" 
what  a  fine  day  it  was  for  a  trip  to  Spain,  when 
Titbottom  suddenly  exclaimed: 

"  Thank  God !  I  own  this  landscape." 

"  You !  "  returned  I. 

"  Certainly,"  said  he. 

"  Why,"  I  answered,  "  I  thought  this  was 
part  of  Bourne's  property  ?  " 

Titbottom  smiled. 

"  Does  Bourne  own  the  sun  and  sky  ?  Does- 
Bourne  own  that  sailing  shadow  yonder? 
Does  Bourne  own  the  golden  luster  of  the 
grain,  or  the  motion  of  the  wood,  or  those 
ghosts  of  hills,  that  glide  pallid  along  the  ho- 
rizon ?  Bourne  ownes  the  dirt  and  fences ;  I 
own  the  beauty  that  makes  the  landscape, 
or  otherwise  how  could  I  own  castles  in 
Spain?" 


46  PRUE    AND   I. 

That  was  very  true.  I  respected  Titbot- 
tom  more  than  ever. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  he,  after  a  long  pause, 
"  that  I  fancy  my  castles  lie  just  beyond  those 
distant  hills.  At  all  events,  I  can  see  them 
-distinctly  from  their  summits." 

He  smiled  quietly  as  he  spoke,  and  it  was 
then  I  asked: 

"  But,  Titbottom,  have  you  never  discov- 
ered the  way  to  them  ?  " 

"  Dear  me !  yes,"  answered  he,  "  I  know  the 
way  well  enough ;  but  it  would  do  no  good  to 
follow  it.  I  should  give  out  before  I  arrived. 
It  is  a  long  and  difficult  journey  for  a  man  of 
:my  years  and  habits — and  income,"  he  added. 

As  he  spoke  he  seated  himself  upon  the 
.ground;  and  while  he  pulled  long  blades  of 
.grass,  and,  putting  them  between  his  thumbs, 
whistled  shrilly,  he  said : 

"  I  have  never  known  but  two  men  who 
reached  their  estates  in  Spain." 

"  Indeed !  "  said  I,  "  how  did  they  go?  " 

"  One  went  over  the  side  of  a  ship,  and  the 
other  out  of  a  third-story  window,"  said  Tit- 
bottom,  fitting  a  broad  blade  between  his 
thumbs  and  blowing  a  demoniacal  blast. 

"  And  I  know  one  proprietor  who  resides 
upon  his  estates  constantly,"  continued  he. 


MY    CHATEAUX.  47 

"Who  is  that?" 

"  Our  old  friend  Slug,  whom  you  may  see 
any  day  at  the  asylum,  just  coming  in  from 
the  hunt,  or  going  to  call  upon  his  friend  the 
Grand  Lama,  or  dressing  for  the  wedding  of 
the  Man  in  the  Moon,  or  receiving  an  ambas- 
sador from  Timbuctoo.  Whenever  I  go  to 
see  him,  Slug  insists  that  I  am  the  pope,  dis- 
guised as  a  journeyman  carpenter,  and  he  en- 
tertains me  in  the  most  distinguished  manner. 
He  always  insists  upon  kissing  my  foot,  and 
I  bestow  upon  him,  kneeling,  the  apostolic 
benediction.  This  is  the  only  Spanish  pro- 
prietor in  possession,  with  whom  I  am  ac- 
quainted." 

And  so  saying,  Titbottom  lay  back  upon 
the  ground,  and  making  a  spyglass  of  his 
hand,  surveyed  the  landscape  through  it. 
This  was  a  marvelous  bookkeeper  of  more 
than  sixty! 

"  I  know  another  man  who  lived  in  his 
Spanish  castle  for  two  months,  and  then  was 
tumbled  out  head  first.  That  was  young 
Stunning  who  married  old  Buhl's  daughter. 
She  was  all  smiles,  and  mamma  was  all  sugar, 
and  Stunning  was  all  bliss,  for  two  months. 
He  carried  his  head  in  the  clouds,  and  felicity 
absolutely  foamed  at  his  eyes.  He  was 


48  PRUE    AND    I. 

drowned  in  love;  seeing,  as  usual,  not  what 
really  was,  but  what  he  fancied.  He  lived  so 
exclusively  in  his  castle,  that  he  forgot  the 
office  downtown,  and  one  morning  there  came 
a  fall,  and  Stunning  was  smashed."  Titbot- 
tom  arose,  and  stooping  over,  contemplated 
the  landscape  with  his  head  down  between  his 
legs. 

"  It's  quite  a  new  effect  so,"  said  the  nimble 
bookkeeper. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "Stunning  failed?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  smashed  all  up,  and  the  castle  in 
Spain  came  down  about  his  ears  with  a  tre- 
mendous crash.  The  family  sugar  was  all 
dissolved  into  the  original  cane  in  a  moment. 
Fairy  times  are  over,  are  they?  Heigh-ho? 
the  falling  stones  of  Stunning's  castle  have  left 
their  marks  all  over  his  face.  I  call  them  his 
Spanish  scars." 

"  But,  my  dear  Titbottom,"  said  I,  "  what 
is  the  matter  with  you  this  morning,  your 
usual  sedateness  is  quite  gone  ?  " 

"  It's  only  the  exhilarating  air  of  Spain," 
he  answered.  "  My  castles  are  so  beautiful 
that  I  can  never  think  of  them,  nor  speak  of 
them,  without  excitement;  when  I  was 
younger  I  desired  to  reach  them  even  more 
ardently  than  now,  because  I  heard  that  the 


MY    CHATEAUX.  49 

philosopher's  stone  was  in  the  vault  of  one  of 
them." 

"  Indeed,"  said  I,  yielding  to  sympathy, 
"  and  I  have  good  reason  to  believe  that  the 
fountain  of  eternal  youth  flows  through  the 
garden  of  one  of  mine.  Do  you  know 
whether  there  are  any  children  upon  your 
grounds  ?  " 

" '  The  children  of  Alice  call  Bartrum 
father ! '  "  replied  Titbottom  solemnly,  and  in 
a  low  voice,  as  he  folded  his  faded  hands  be- 
fore him,  and  stood  erect,  looking  wistfully 
over  the  landscape.  The  light  wind  played 
with  his  thin  white  hair,  and  his  sober,  black 
suit  was  almost  somber  in  the  sunshine.  The 
half-bitter  expression,  which  I  had  remarked 
upon  his  face  during  part  of  our  conversa- 
tion, had  passed  away,  and  the  old  sadness  had 
returned  to  his  eye.  He  stood,  in  the  pleasant 
morning,  the  very  image  of  a  great  proprietor 
of  castles  in  Spain. 

"  There  is  wonderful  music  there,"  he  said : 
"  sometimes  I  awake  at  night  and  hear  it.  It 
is  full  of  the  sweetness  of  youth,  and  love,  and 
a  new  world.  I  lie  still  and  listen,  and  I  seem 
to  arrive  at  the  great  gates  of  my  estates. 
They  swing  open  upon  noiseless  hinges,  and 
the  tropic  of  my  dreams  receives  me.  Up  the 


50  PRUE    AND.  I. 

broad  steps,  whose  marble  pavement  mingled 
light  and  shadow  print  with  shifting  mosaic, 
beneath  the  boughs  of  lustrous  oleanders,  and 
palms,  and  trees  of  unimaginable  fragrance,  I 
pass  into  the  vestibule,  warm  with  summer 
odors,  and  into  the  presence-chamber  beyond, 
where  my  wife  awaits  me.  But  castle,  and 
wife,  and  odorous  woods,  and  pictures,  and 
statues,  and  all  the  bright  substance  of  my 
household,  seem  to  reel  and  glimmer  in  the 
splendor,  as  the  music  fails. 

"  But  when  it  swells  again,  I  clasp  the  wife 
to  my  heart,  and  we  move  on  with  a  fair  so- 
ciety, beautiful  women,  noble  men,  before 
whom  the  tropical  luxuriance  of  that  world 
bends  and  bows  in  homage ;  and,  through  end- 
less days  and  nights  of  eternal  summer,  the 
stately  revel  of  our  life  proceeds.  Then,  sud- 
denly, the  music  stops.  I  hear  my  watch  tick- 
ing under  the  pillow.  I  see  dimly  the  outline 
of  my  little  upper  room.  Then  I  fall  asleep, 
and  in  the  morning  some  one  of  the  boarders 
at  the  breakfast  table  says : 

"  '  Did  you  hear  that  serenade  last  night, 
Mr.  Titbottom?'" 

I  doubted  no  longer  that  Titbottom  was  a 
very  extensive  proprietor.  The  truth  is,  that 
he  was  so  constantly  engaged  in  planning  and 


MY    CHATEAUX.  51 

arranging  his  castles  that  he  conversed  very 
little  at  the  office,  and  I  had  misinterpreted 
his  silence.  As  we  walked  homeward  that 
day,  he  was  more  than  ever  tender  and  gentle. 
*'  We  must  all  have  something  to  do  in  this 
world,"  said  he,  "  and  I,  who  have  so  much 
leisure — for  you  know  I  have  no  wife  nor 
children  to  work  for — know  not  what  I  should 
do  if  I  had  not  my  castles  in  Spain  to  look 
after." 

When  I  reached  home,  my  darling  Prue  was 
sitting  in  the  small  parlor,  reading.  I  felt  a 
little  guilty  for  having  been  so  long  away,  and 
upon  my  holiday,  too.  So  I  began  to  say  that 
Titbottom  invited  me  to  go  to  walk,  and  that  I 
had  no  idea  we  were  gone  so  far,  and, 
that 

"  Don't  excuse  yourself,"  said  Prue,  smil- 
ing, as  she  laid  down  her  book ;  "  I  am  glad 
you  have  enjoyed  yourself.  You  ought  to  go 
out  sometimes,  and  breathe  the  fresh  air,  and 
run  about  the  fields,  which  I  am  not  strong 
enough  to  do.  Why  did  you  not  bring  home 
Mr.  Titbottom  to  tea?  He  is  so  lonely,  and 
looks  so  sad.  I  am  sure  he  has  very  little 
comfort  in  this  life,"  said  my  thought- 
ful Prue,  as  she  called  Jane  to  set  the  tea 
table. 


52  PRUE    AND    I. 

"  But  he  has  a  good  deal  of  comfort  in 
Spain,  Prue.,"  answered  I. 

"  When  was  Mr.  Titbottom  in  Spain  ?  "  in- 
quired my  wife. 

"  Why,  he  is  there  more  than  half  the  time," 
I  replied. 

Prue  looked  quietly  at  me  and  smiled.  "  I 
see  it  has  done  you  good  to  breathe  the  coun- 
try air,"  said  she.  "  Jane,  get  some  of  the 
blackberry  jam,  and  call  Adoniram  and  the 
children." 

So  we  went  in  to  tea.  We  eat  in  the  back 
parlor,  for  our  little  house  and  limited  means 
do  not  allow  us  to  have  things  upon  the 
Spanish  scale.  It  is  better  than  a  sermon  to 
hear  my  wife  Prue  talk  to  the  children;  and 
when  she  speaks  to  me  it  seems  sweeter  than 
pslam  singing;  at  least,  such  as  we  have  in 
our  church.  I  am  very  happy. 

Yet  I  dream  my  dreams,  and  attend  to  my 
castles  in  Spain.  I  have  so  much  property 
there,  that  I  could  not,  in  conscience,  neglect 
it.  All  the  years  of  my  youth,  and  the  hopes 
of  my  manhood,  are  stored  away,  like  precious 
stones,  in  the  vaults ;  and  I  know  that  I  shall 
find  everything  convenient,  elegant,  and  beau- 
tiful when  I  come  into  possession. 

As  the  years  go  by,  I  am  not  conscious  that 


MY    CHATEAUX.  53 

my  interest  diminishes.  If  I  see  that  age  is 
subtly  sifting  his  snow  in  the  dark  hair  of  my 
Prue,  I  smile,  contented,  for  her  hair,  dark 
and  heavy  as  when  I  first  saw  it,  is  all  care- 
fully treasured  in  my  castles  in  Spain.  If  I 
feel  her  arm  more  heavily  leaning  upon  mine, 
as  we  walk  around  the  squares,  I  press  it 
closely  to  my  side,  for  I  know  that  the  easy 
grace  of  her  youth's  motion  will  be  restored 
by  the  elixir  of  that  Spanish  air.  If  her  voice 
sometimes  falls  less  clearly  from  her  lips,  it  is 
no  less  sweet  to  me,  for  the  music  of  her 
voice's  prime  fills,  freshly  as  ever,  those  Span- 
ish halls.  If  the  light  I  love  fades  a  little 
from  her  eyes,  I  know  that  the  glances  she 
gave  me,  in  our  youth,  are  the  eternal  sun- 
shine of  my  castles  in  Spain. 

I  defy  time  and  change.  Each  year  laid 
upon  our  heads,  is  a  hand  of  blessing.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  I  shall  find  the  shortest  route  to 
my  possessions  as  soon  as  need  be.  Perhaps, 
when  Adoniram  is  married,  we  shall  all  go 
out  to  one  of  my  castles  to  pass  the  honey- 
moon. 

Ah!  if  the  true  history  of  Spain  could  be 
written,  what  a  book  were  there!  The  most 
purely  romantic  ruin  in  the  world  is  the  Al- 
hambra.  But  of  the  Spanish  castles,  more 


54  PRUE    AND    I. 

spacious  and  splendid  than  any  possible  Al- 
hambra,  and  forever  unruined,  no  towers  are 
visible,  no  pictures  have  been  painted,  and 
only  a  few  ecstatic  songs  have  been  sung. 
The  pleasure  dome  of  Kubla  Khan,  which 
Coleridge  saw  in  Xanadu  (a  province  with 
which  I  am  not  familiar),  and  a  fine  Castle  of 
Indolence  belonging  to  Thomson,  and  the 
palace  of  art  which  Tennyson  built  as  a 
"  lordly  pleasure-house "  for  his  soul,  are 
among  the  best  statistical  accounts  of  those 
Spanish  estates.  Turner,  too,  has  done  for 
them  much  the  same  service  that  Owen  Jones 
has  done  for  the  Alhambra.  In  the  vignette 
to  Moore's  "  Epicurean  "  you  will  find  repre- 
sented one  of  the  most  extensive  castles  in 
Spain ;  and  there  are  several  exquisite  studies 
from  others,  by  the  same  artists,  published  in 
Rogers'  "  Italy." 

But  I  confess  I  do  not  recognize  any  of 
these  as  mine,  and  that  fact  makes  me  prouder 
of  my  own  castles,  for,  if  there  be  such  bound- 
less variety  of  magnificence  in  their  aspect  and 
exterior,  imagine  the  life  that  is  led  there,  a 
life  not  unworthy  such  a  setting. 

If  Adoniram  should  be  married  within  a 
reasonable  time,  and  we  should  make  up  that 
little  family  party  to  go  out,  I  have  considered 


MY    CHATEAUX.  55 

already  what  society  I  should  ask  to  meet  the 
bride.  Jeptha's  daughter  and  the  Chevalier 
Bayard,  I  should  say — and  Fair  Rosamond 
with  Dean  Swift — King  Solomon  and  the 
Queen  of  Sheba  would  come  over,  I  think, 
from  his  famous  castle — Shakespeare  and  his 
friend  the  Marquis  of  Southamptom  might 
come  in  a  galley  with  Cleopatra;  and,  if  any 
guest  were  offended  by  her  presence,  he 
should  devote  himself  to  the  Fair  One  with 
Golden  Locks.  Mephistopheles  is  not  person- 
ally disagreeable,  and  is  exceedingly  well-bred 
in  society,  I  am  told ;  and  he  should  come  tete- 
a-tete  with  Mrs.  Rawdon  Crawley.  Spencer 
should  escort  his  Faerie  Queen,  who  would 
preside  at  the  tea  table. 

Mr.  Samuel  Weller  I  should  ask  as  Lord  of 
Misrule,  and  Dr.  Johnson  as  the  Abbot  of 
Unreason.  I  would  suggest  to  Major  Dob- 
bin to  accompany  Mrs.  Fry ;  Alcibiades  would 
bring  Homer  and  Plato  in  his  purple-sailed 
galley;  and  I  would  have  Aspasia,  Ninon  de 
TEnclos,  and*  Mrs.  Battle,  to  make  up  a  table 
of  whist  with  Queen  Elizabeth.  I  shall  order 
a  seat  placed  in  the  oratory  for  Lady  Jane 
Grey  and  Joan  of  Arc.  I  shall  invite  General 
Washington  to  bring  some  of  the  choicest 
cigars  from  his  plantation  for  Sir  Walter 


56  PRUE    AND    I. 

Raleigh ;  and  Chaucer,  Browning,  and  Walter 
Savage  Landor,  should  talk  with  Goethe,  who 
is  to  bring  Tasso  on  one  arm  and  Iphigenia  on 
the  other. 

Dante  and  Mr.  Carlyle  would  prefer,  I  sup- 
pose, to  go  down  into  the  dark  vaults  under 
the  castle.  The  Man  in  the  Moon,  the  Old 
Harry,  and  William  of  the  Wisp  would  be 
valuable  additions,  and  the  Laureate  Tennyson 
might  compose  an  official  ode  upon  the  occa- 
sion ;  or  I  would  ask  "  They "  to  say  all 
about  it. 

Of  course  there  are  many  other  guests 
whose  names  I  do  not  at  the  moment  recall. 
But  I  should  invite,  first  of  all,  Miles  Cover- 
dale,  who  knows  everything  about  these  places 
and  this  society,  for  he  was  at  Blithedale,  and 
he  has  described  "  a  select  party  "  which  he 
attended  at  a  castle  in  the  air. 

Prue  has  not  yet  looked  over  the  list.  In 
fact  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  she  knows  my  in- 
tention. For  I  wish  to  surprise  her,  and  I 
think  it  would  be  generous  to  ask  Bourne  to 
lead  her  out  in  the  bridal  quadrille.  I  think 
that  I  shall  try  the  first  waltz  with  the  girl  I 
sometimes  seem  to  see  in  my  fairest  castle,  but 
whom  I  very  vaguely  remember.  Titbottom 
will  come  with  old  Burton  and  Jaques.  But 


MY    CHATEAUX.  57 

I  have  not  prepared  half  my  invitations.  Do 
you  not  guess  it,  seeing  that  I  did  not  name, 
first  of  all  Elia,  who  assisted  at  the  "  Re- 
joicings upon  the  new  year's  coming  of  age?  " 

And  yet,  if  Adoniram  should  never  marry? 
— or  if  we  could  not  get  to  Spain? — or  if  the 
company  would  not  come? 

What  then?  Shall  I  betray  a  secret?  I 
have  already  entertained  this  party  in  my  hum- 
ble little  parlor  at  home;  and  Prue  presided 
as  serenely  as  Semiramis  over  her  court. 
Have  I  not  said  that  I  defy  time,  and  shall 
space  hope  to  daunt  me?  I  keep  books  by 
day,  but  by  night  books  keep  me.  They  leave 
me  to  dreams  and  reveries.  Shall  I  confess, 
that  sometimes  when  I  have  been  sitting,  read- 
ing to  my  Prue,  Cymbeline,  perhaps,  or  a 
Canterbury  tale,  I  have  seemed  to  see  clearly 
before  me  the  broad  highway  to  my  castles  in 
Spain;  and  as  she  looked  up  from  her  work, 
and  smiled  in  sympathy,  I  have  even  fancied 
that  I  was  already  there. 


SEA   FROM    SHORE. 

"  Come  unto  these  yellow  sands." 

—  Tempest. 

"  Argosies  of  magic  sails, 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly 
bales." 

—  Tennyson. 

IN  the  month  of  June,  Prue  and  I  like  to 
walk  upon  the  Battery  toward  sunset,  and 
watch  the  steamers,  crowded  with  passengers, 
bound  for  the  pleasant  places  along  the  coast 
where  people  pass  the  hot  months.  Seaside 
lodgings  are  not  very  comfortable,  I  am  told ; 
but  who  would  not  be  a  little  pinched  in  his 
chamber,  if  his  windows  looked  upon  the  sea  ? 

In  such  praises  of  the  ocean  do  I  indulge  at 
such  times,  and  so  respectfully  do  I  regard  the 
sailors  who  may  chance  to  pass,  that  Prue 
often  says,  with  her  shrewd  smiles,  that  my 
mind  is  a  kind  of  Greenwich  Hospital,  full  of 
abortive  marine  hopes  and  wishes,  broken- 
legged  intentions,  blind  regrets,  and  desires 
whose  hands  have  been  shot  away  in  some 
58 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  59 

hard  battle  of  experience,  so  that  they  can- 
not grasp  the  results  toward  which  they 
reach. 

She  is  right,  as  usual.  Such  hopes  and  in- 
tentions do  lie,  ruined  and  hopeless  now, 
strewn  about  the  placid  contentment  of  my 
mental  life,  as  the  old  pensioners  sit  about  the 
grounds  at  Greenwich,  maimed  and  musing  in 
the  quiet  morning  sunshine.  Many  a  one 
among  them  thinks  what  a  Nelson  ne  would 
have  been  if  both  his  legs  had  not  been  pre- 
maturely carried  away ;  or  in  what  a  Trafalgar 
of  triumph  he  would  have  ended,  if,  unfortu- 
nately, he  had  not  happened  to  have  been 
blown  blind  by  the  explosion  of  that  unlucky 
magazine. 

So  I  dream,  sometimes,  of  a  straight  scar- 
let collar,  stiff  with  gold  lace,  around  my 
neck,  instead  of  this  limp  white  cravat ;  and  I 
have  even  brandished  my  quill  at  the  office  so 
cutlasswise,  that  Titbottom  has  paused  in  his 
additions  and  looked  at  me  as  if  he  doubted 
whether  I  should  come  out  quite  square  in 
my  petty  cash.  Yet  he  understands  it.  Tit- 
bottom  was  born  in  Nantucket. 

That  is  the  secret  of  my  fondness  for  the 
sea;  I  was  born  by  it.  Not  more  surely  do 
Savoyards  pine  for  the  mountains,  or  Cock- 


60  PRUE    AND   I. 

neys  for  the  sound  of  Bow  bells,  than  those 
who  are  born  within  sight  and  sound  of  the 
ocean  to  return  to  it  and  renew  their  fealty. 
In  dreams  the  children  of  the  sea  hear  its 
voice.  I  have  read  in  some  book  of  travels 
that  certain  tribes  of  Arabs  have  no  name  for 
the  ocean,  and  that  when  they  came  to  the 
shore  for  the  first  time,  they  asked  with 
eager  sadness,  as  if  penetrated  by  the  con- 
viction of  a  superior  beauty,  "  what  is  that 
desert  of  water  more  beautiful  than  the 
land?" 

And  in  the  translations  of  German  stories 
which  Adoniram  and  the  other  children  read, 
and  into  which  I  occasionally  look  in  the 
evening  when  they  are  gone  to  bed — for  I  like 
to  know  what  interests  my  children — I  find 
that  the  Germans,  who  do  not  live  near  the 
sea,  love  the  fairy  lore  of  water,  and  tell  the 
sweet  stories  of  Undine  and  Melusina,  as  if 
they  had  especial  charm  for  them,  because 
their  country  is  inland. 

We  who  know  the  sea  have  less  fairy  feel- 
ing about  it,  but  our  realities  are  romance. 
My  earliest  remembrances  are  of  a  long  range 
of  old,  half-dilapidated  stores;  red  brick 
stores  with  steep  wooden  roofs,  and  stone 
window  frames  and  door  frames,  which  stood 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  6l 

upon  docks  built  as  if  for  immense  trade 
with  all  quarters  of  the  globe. 

Generally  they  were  only  a  few  sloops 
moored  to  the  tremendous  posts,  which  I  fan- 
cied could  easily  hold  fast  a  Spanish  Armada 
in  a  tropical  hurricane.  But  sometimes  a 
great  ship,  an  East  Indiaman,  with  rusty, 
seamed,  blistered  sides,  and  dingy  sails,  came 
slowly  moving  up  the  harbor,  with  an  air  of 
indolent  self-importance  and  consciousness 
of  superiority,  which  inspired  me  with  pro- 
found respect.  If  the  ship  had  ever  chanced 
to  run  down  a  rowboat,  or  a  sloop,  or  any 
specimen  of  smaller  craft,  I  should  only  have 
wondered  at  the  temerity  of  any  floating 
thing  in  crossing  the  path  of  such  supreme 
majesty.  The  ship  was  leisurely  chained  and 
cabled  to  the  old  dock,  and  then  came  the  dis- 
emboweling. 

How  the  stately  monster  had  been  fattening 
upon  foreign  spoils!  How  it  had  gorged  it- 
self (such  galleons  did  never  seem  to  me  of 
the  feminine  gender)  with  the  luscious  treas- 
ures of  the  tropics  !  It  had  lain  its  lazy  length 
along  the  shores  of  China,  and  sucked  in  whole 
flowery  harvests  of  tea.  The  Brazilian  sun 
flashed  through  the  strong  wicker  prisons, 
bursting  with  bananas  and  nectarean  fruits 


62  PRUE   AND   I. 

that  eschew  the  temperate  zone.  Steams  of 
camphor,  of  sandal  wood,  arose  from  the  hold. 
Sailors  chanting  cabalistic  strains,  that  had 
to  my  ear  a  shrill  and  monotonous  pathos,  like 
the  uniform  rising  and  falling  of  an  autumn 
wind,  turned  cranks  that  lifted  the  bales,  and 
boxes,  and  crates,  and  swung  them  ashore. 

But  to  my  mind,  the  spell  of  their  singing 
raised  the  fragrant  freight,  and  not  the  crank. 
Madagascar  and  Ceylon  appeared  at  the  mys- 
tic bidding  of  the  song.  The  placid  sunshine 
of  the  docks  was  perfumed  with  India.  The 
universal  calm  of  southern  seas  poured  from 
the  bosom  of  the  ship  over  the  quiet,  decaying 
old  northern  port. 

Long  after  the  confusion  of  unloading  was 
over,  and  the  ship  lay  as  if  all  voyages  were 
ended,  I  dared  to  creep  timorously  along  the 
edge  of  the  dock,  and  at  great  risk  of  falling 
in  the  black  water  of  its  huge  shadow,  I 
placed  my  hand  upon  the  hot  hulk,  and  so  es- 
tablished a  mystic  and  exquisite  connection 
with  Pacific  islands,  with  palm  groves  and  all 
the  passionate  beauties  they  embower;  with 
jungles,  Bengal  tigers,  pepper,  and  the 
crushed  feet  of  Chinese  fairies.  I  touched 
Asia,  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  and  the  Happy 
Islands.  I  would  not  believe  that  the  heat  I 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  63 

felt  was  of  our  northern  sun ;  to  my  finer  sym- 
pathy it  burned  with  equatorial  fervors. 

The  freight  was  piled  in  the  old  stores.  I 
believe  that  many  of  them  remain,  but  they 
have  lost  their  character.  When  I  knew  them, 
not  only  was  I  younger,  but  partial  decay  had 
overtaken  the  town;  at  least  the  bulk  of  its 
India  trade  had  shifted  to  New  York  and  Bos- 
ton. But  the  appliances  remained.  There 
was  no  throng  of  busy  traffickers,  and  after 
school,  in  the  afternoon,  I  strolled  by  and 
gazed  into  the  solemn  interiors. 

Silence  reigned  within — silence,  dimness, 
and  piles  of  foreign  treasure.  Vast  coils  of 
cable,  like  tame  boa-constrictors,  served  as 
seats  for  men  with  large  stomachs  and  heavy 
watch  seals,  and  nankeen  trousers,  who  sat 
looking  out  of  the  door  toward  the  ships,  with 
little  other  sign  of  life  than  an  occasional  low 
talking,  as  if  in  their  sleep.  Huge  hogsheads 
perspiring  brown  sugar  and  oozing  slow  mo- 
lasses, as  if  nothing  tropical  could  keep  within 
bounds,  but  must  continually  expand,  and  ex- 
ude, and  overflow,  stood  against  the  walls,  and 
liad  an  architectural  significance,  for  they 
darkly  reminded  me  of  Egyptian  prints,  and 
in  the  duskiness  of  the  low-vaulted  store 
seemed  cyclopean  columns  incomplete. 


64  PRUE    AND    I. 

Strange  festoons  and  heaps  of  bags,  square 
piles  of  square  boxes  cased  in  mats,  bales  of 
airy  summer  stuffs,  which,  even  in  winter,, 
scoffed  at  cold,  and  shamed  it  by  audacious 
assumption  of  eternal  sun;  little  specimen 
boxes  of  precious  dyes  that  even  now  shine 
through  my  memory,  like  old  Venetian  schools 
unpainted — these  were  all  there  in  rich  con- 
fusion. 

The  stores  had  a  twilight  of  dimness,  the  air 
was  spicy  with  mingled  odors.  I  liked  to  look 
suddenly  in  from  the  glare  of  sunlight  out- 
side, and  then  the  cool  sweet  dimness  was  like 
the  palpable  breath  of  the  far-off  island 
groves ;  and  if  only  some  parrot  or  macaw 
hung  within,  would  flaunt  with  glistening 
plumage  in  his  cage,  and  as  the  gay  hue  flashed 
in  a  chance  sunbeam,  call  in  his  hard,  shrill 
voice,  as  if  thrusting  sharp  sounds  upon  a 
glistening  wire  from  out  that  grateful  gloom, 
then  the  enchantment  was  complete,  and  with- 
out moving,  I  was  circumnavigating  the  globe. 

From  the  old  stores  and  the  docks  slowly 
crumbling,  touched,  I  know  not  why  or  how, 
by  the  pensive  air  of  past  prosperity,  I  ram- 
bled out  of  town  on  those  well-remembered 
afternoons,  to  the  fields  that  lay  upon  hillsides 
over  the  harbor,  and  there  sat,  looking  out  to 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  65 

sea,  fancying  some  distant  sail  proceeding  to 
the  glorious  ends  of  the  earth,  to  be  my  type 
and  image,  who  would  so  sail,  stately  and  suc- 
cessful, to  all  the  glorious  ports  of  the  Future. 
Going  home,  I  returned  by  the  stores,  which 
black  porters  were  closing.  But  I  stood 
long  looking  in,  saturating  my  imagination, 
and  as  it  appeared,  my  clothes,  with  the  spicy 
suggestion.  For  when  I  reached  home,  my 
thrifty  mother — another  Prue — came  snuff- 
ing and  smelling  about  me. 

"  Why!  my  son  (snuff,  snuff),  where  have 
you  been?  (snuff,  snuff).  Has  the  baker 
been  makng  (snuff)  gingerbread?  You  smell 
as  if  you'd  been  in  (snuff,  snuff)  a  bag  of  cin- 
namon." 

"  I've  only  been  on  the  wharves,  mother." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  hope  you  haven't  stuck 
up  your  clothes  with  molasses.  Wharves  are 
dirty  places,  and  dangerous.  You  must  take 
care  of  yourself,  my  son.  Really  this  smell  is 
(snuff,  snuff)  very  strong." 

But  I  departed  from  the  maternal  presence, 
proud  and  happy.  I  was  aromatic.  I  bore 
about  me  the  true  foreign  air.  Whoever 
smelled  me  smelled  distant  countries.  I  had 
nutmeg,  spices,  cinnamon,  and  cloves,  without 
the  jolly  red  nose.  I  pleased  myself  with  be- 


66  PRUE    AND   I. 

ing  the  representative  of  the  Indies.  I  was  in 
good  odor  with  myself  and  all  the  world. 

I  do  not  know  how  it  is,  but  surely  nature 
makes  kindly  provision.  An  imagination  so- 
easily  excited  as  mine  could  not  have  escaped 
disappointment  if  it  had  had  ample  opportun- 
ity and  experience  of  the  lands  it  so  longed  to 
see.  Therefore,  although  I  made  the  India 
voyage,  I  have  never  been  a  traveler,  and  sav- 
ing the  little  time  I  was  ashore  in  India,  I  did 
not  lose  the  sense  of  novelty  and  romance 
which  the  first  sight  of  foreign  lands  inspires. 

That  little  time  was  all  my  foreign  travel. 
I  am  glad  of  it.  I  see  now  that  I  should  never 
have  found  the  country  from  which  the  East 
Indiaman  of  my  early  days  arrived.  The 
palm  groves  do  not  grow  with  which  that  hand 
laid  upon  the  ship  placed  me  in  magic  con- 
ception. As  for  the  lovely  Indian  maid  whom 
the  palmy  arches  bowered,  she  has  long  since 
clasped  some  native  lover  to  her  bosom,  andr 
ripened  into  mild  maternity,  how  should  I 
know  her  now? 

"  You  Would  find  her  quite  as  easily  now  as 
then,"  says  my  Prue,  when  I  speak  of  it. 

She  is  right  again,  as  usual,  that  precious 
woman;  and  it  is  therefore  I  feel  that  if  the 
chances  of  life  have  moored  me  fast  to  a  book- 


SEA    FROM   SHORE.  67 

keeper's  desk,  they  have  left  all  the  lands  I 
longed  to  see  fairer  and  fresher  in  my  mind 
than  they  could  ever  be  in  my  memory. 
Upon  my  only  voyage  I  used  to  climb  into  the 
top  and  search  the  horizon  for  the  shore.  But 
now  in  a  moment  of  calm  thought  I  see  a  more 
Indian  India  than  ever  mariner  discerned,  and 
do  not  envy  the  youths  who  go  there  and  make 
fortunes,  who  wear  grass-cloth  jackets,  drink 
iced  beer,  and  eat  curry;  whose  minds  fall 
asleep,  and  whose  bodies  have  liver  com- 
plaints. 

Unseen  by  me  forever,  nor  ever  regretted, 
shall  wave  the  Egyptian  palms  and  the  Ital- 
ian pines.  Untrodden  by  me,  the  Forum 
shall  still  echo  with  the  footfall  of  imperial 
Rome,  and  the  Parthenon,  unrifled  of  its  mar- 
bles, look,  perfect,  across  the  Egean  blue. 

My  young  friends  return  from  their  foreign 
tours  elate  with  the  smiles  of  a  nameless  Ital- 
ian or  Parisian  belle.  I  know  not  such  cheap 
delights ;  I  am  a  suitor  of  Vittoria  Colonna ;  I 
walk  with  Tasso  along  the  terraced  garden  of 
the  Villa  d'Este,  and  look  to  see  Beatrice  smil- 
ing down  the  rich  gloom  of  the  cypress  shade. 
You  stayed  at  the  Hotel  Europa,  in  Venice,  at 
Danielli's,  or  the  Leone  bianco ;  I  am  the  guest 
of  Marino  Faliero,,  and  I  whisper  to  his  wife 


68  PRUE    AND    I. 

as  we  climb  the  giant  staircase  in  the  summer 
moonlight :  • 

"  Ah  !  senza  amare 
Andare  sul  mare, 
Col  sposo  del  mare, 
Non  puo  consolare." 

It  is  for  the  same  reason  that  I*  did  not  care 
to  dine  with  you  and  Aurelia,  that  I  am  con- 
tent not  to  stand  in  St.  Peter's.  Alas!  if  I 
could  see  the  end  of  it,  it  would  not  be  St. 
Peter's.  For  those  of  us  whom  Nature  means 
to  keep  at  home,  she  provides  entertainment. 
One  man  goes  four  thousand  miles  to  Italy,, 
and  does  not  see  it,  he  is  so  short-sighted. 
Another  is  so  far-sighted  that  he  stays  in  his 
room  and  sees  more  than  Italy. 

But  for  this  very  reason  that  it  washes  the 
shores  of  my  possible  Europe  and  Asia,  the 
sea  draws  me  constantly  to  itself.  Before  I 
came  to  New  York,  while  I  was  still  a  clerk  in 
Boston,  courting  Prue,  and  living  out  of  town,. 
I  never  knew  of  a  ship  sailing  for  India  or 
even  for  England  and  France,  but  I  went  up 
to  the  State  House  cupola  or  to  the  observa- 
tory on  some  friend's  house  in  Roxbury, 
where  I  could  not  be  interrupted,  and  there 
watched  the  departure. 

The  sails  hung  ready;  the  ship  lay  in  the 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  69 

stream ;  busy  little  boats  and  puffing  steamers 
darted  about  it,  clung  to  its  sides,  paddled 
away  from  it,  or  led  the  way  to  sea,  as  min- 
nows might  pilot  a  whale.  The  anchor  was 
slowly  swung  at  the  bow ;  I  could  not  hear  the 
sailors'  song;  but  I  knew  they  were  singing. 
I  could  not  see  the  parting  friends,  but  I  knew 
farewells  were  spoken.  I  did  not  share  the 
confusion,  although  I  knew  what  bustle  there 
was,  what  hurry,  what  shouting,  what  creak- 
ing, what  fall  of  ropes  and  iron,  what  sharp, 
oaths,  low  laughs,  whispers,  sobs.  But  I  was 
cool,  high,  separate.  To  me  it  was 

"  A  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean." 

The  sails  were  shaken  out,  and  the  ship  be- 
gan to  move.  It  was  a  fair  breeze,  perhaps, 
and  no  steamer  was  needed  to  tow  her  away. 
She  receded  down  the  bay.  Friends  turned 
back — I  could  not  see  them — and  waved  their 
hands,  and  wiped  their  eyes,  and  went  home 
to  dinner.  Farther  and  farther  from  the  ships 
at  anchor,  the  lessening  vessel  became  single 
and  solitary  upon  the  water.  The  sun  sank 
in  the  west;  but  I  watched  her  still.  Every 
flash  of  her  sails,  as  she  tacked  and  turned, 
thrilled  my  heart. 


70  PRUE    AND    I. 

Yet  Prue  was  not  on  board.  I  had  never 
seen  one  of  the  passengers  or  the  crew.  I  did 
not  know  the  consignees,  nor  the  name  of  the 
vessel.  I  had  shipped  no  adventure,  nor 
risked  any  insurance,  nor  made  any  bet,  but 
my  eyes  clung  to  her  as  Ariadne's  to  the  fad- 
ing sail  of  Theseus.  The  ship  was  freighted 
with  more  than  appeared  upon  her  papers,, 
yet  she  was  not  a  smuggler.  She  bore  all 
there  was  of  that  nameless  lading,  yet  the  next 
ship  would  carry  as  much.  She  was  freighted 
with  fancy.  My  hopes,  and  wishes,  and 
vague  desires,  were  all  on  board.  It  seemed 
to  me  a  treasure  not  less  rich  than  that  which 
filled  the  East  Indiaman  at  the  old  dock  in  my 
boyhood. 

When,  at  length,  the  ship  was  a  sparkle 
upon  the  horizon,  I  waved  my  hand  in  last 
farewell,  I  strained  my  eyes  for  a  last  glimpse. 
My  mind  had  gone  to  sea,  and  had  left  noise 
behind.  But  now  I  heard  again  the  multi- 
tudinous murmur  of  the  city,  and  went  down 
rapidly,  and  threaded  the  short,  narrow  streets 
to  the  office.  Yet,  believe  it,  every  dream  of 
that  day,  as  I  watched  the  vessel,  was  written 
at  night  to  Prue.  She  knew  my  heart  had  not 
sailed  away. 

Those  days  are  long  past  now,  but  still  I 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  74 

walk  upon  the  Battery  and  look  toward  the 
Narrows,  and  know  that  beyond  them,  sepa-' 
rated  only  by  the  sea,  are  many  of  whom  I 
would  so  gladly  know  and  so  rarely  hear. 
The  sea  rolls  between  us  like  the  lapse  of 
dusky  ages.  They  trusted  themselves  to  it, 
and  it  bore  them  away  far  and  far  as  if  into- 
the  past.  Last  night  I  read  of  Antony,  but  I 
have  not  heard  from  Christopher  these  many 
months,  and  by  so  much  farther  away  is  he,, 
so  much  older  and  more  remote,  than  Antony. 
As  for  William,  he  is  as  vague  as  any  of  the 
shepherd  kings  of  ante-Pharaonic  dynasties. 
It  is  the  sea  that  has  done  it,  it  has  carried 
them  off  and  put  them  away  upon  its  other 
side.  It  is  fortunate  the  sea  did  not  put  them 
upon  its  underside.  Are  they  hale  and  happy 
still?  Is  their  hair  gray,  and  have  they  mus- 
tachios?  Or  have  they  taken  to  wigs  and 
crutches?  Are  they  popes  or  cardinals  yet? 
Do  they  feast  with  Lucrezia  Borgia,  or  preach 
red  republicanism  to  the  Council  of  Ten  ?  Do- 
they  sing,  "  Behold  how  brightly  breaks  the 
morning"  with  Masaniello?  Do  they  laugh 
at  Ulysses  and  skip  ashore  to  the  Sirens? 
Has  Mesrour,  chief  of  the  Eunuchs,  caught 
them  with  Zobeide  in  the  Caliph's  garden,  or 
have  they  made  cheesecakes  without  pepper? 


72  PRUE    AND    I. 

Friends  of  my  youth,  where  in  your  wander- 
ings have  you  tasted  the  blissful  Lotus,  that 
you  neither  come  nor  send  us  tidings? 

Across  the  sea  also  came  idle  rumors,  as 
false  reports  steal  into  history  and  defile  fair 
fame.  Was  it  longer  ago  than  yesterday  that 
I  walked  with  my  cousin,  then  recently  a 
widow,  and  talked  with  her  of  the  countries 
to  which  she  meant  to  sail?  She  was  young, 
and  dark-eyed,  and  wore  great  hoops  of  gold, 
barbaric  gold,  in  her  ears.  Tbe  hope  of  Italy, 
the  thought  of  living  there  had  risen  like  a 
dawn  in  the  darkness  of  her  mind.  I  talked 
and  listened  by  rapid  turns. 

Was  it  longer  ago  than  yesterday  that  she 
told  me  of  her  splendid  plans,  how  palaces 
tapestried  with  gorgeous  paintings  should  be 
cheaply  hired,  and  the  best  of  teachers  lead 
her  children  to  the  completest  and  most  vari- 
ous knowledge;  how — and  with  her  slender 
pittance!  she  should  have  a  box  at  the  opera, 
and  a  carriage,  and  liveried  servants,  and  in 
perfect  health  and  youth,  lead  a  perfect  life 
in  a  perfect  climate? 

And  now  what  do  I  hear?  Why  does  a 
tear  sometimes  drop  so  audibly  upon  my  pa- 
per, that  Titbottom  looks  across  with  a  sort  of 
mild  rebuking  glance  of  inquiry,  whether  it 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  73 

is  kind  to  let  even  a  single  tear  fall,  when  an 
ocean  of  £ears  is  pent  up  in  hearts  that  would 
burst  and  overflow  if  but  one  drop  should 
force  its  way  out?  Why  across  the  sea  came 
faint  gusty  stories,  like  low  voices  in  the  wind, 
of  a  cloistered  garden  and  sunny  seclusion — 
and  a  life  of  unknown  and  unexplained  lux- 
ury. What  is  this  picture  of  a  pale  face 
showered  with  streaming  black  hair,  and  large 
sad  eyes  looking  upon  lovely  and  noble  chil- 
dren playing  in  the  sunshine — and  a  brow 
pained  with  thought  straining  into  their  des- 
tiny? Who  is  this  figure,  a  man  tall  and 
comely,  with  melting  eyes  and  graceful  mo- 
tion, who  comes  and  goes  at  pleasure,  who  is 
not  a  husband,  yet  has  the  key  of  the  clois- 
tered garden? 

I  do  not  know.  They  are  secrets  of  the 
sea.  The  pictures  pass  before  my  mind  sud- 
denly and  unawares,  and  I  feel  the  tears  ris- 
ing that  I  would  gladly  repress.  Titbottom 
looks  at  me,  then  stands  by  the  window  of  the 
office,  and  leans  his  brow  against  the  cold  iron 
bars,  and  looks  down  into  the  little  square 
paved  court.  I  take  my  hat  and  steal  out  of 
the  office  for  a  few  minutes,  and  slowly  pace 
the  hurrying  streets.  Meek-eyed  Alice !  mag- 
nificent Maud!  sweet  baby  Lilian!  why  does 


74  PRUE    AND    I. 

the  sea  imprison  you  so  far  away,  when  will 
you  return,  where  do  you  linger?  The  water 
laps  idly  about  the  docks — lies  calm,  or  gayly 
heaves.  Why  does  it  bring  me  doubts  and 
fears  now,  that  brought  such  bounty  of  beauty 
in  the  days  long  gone? 

I  remember  that  the  day  when  my  dark- 
haired  cousin,  with  hoops  of  barbaric  gold  in 
her  ears,  sailed  for  Italy,  was  quarter  day,  and 
we  balanced  the  books  at  the  office.  It  was 
nearly  noon,  and  in  my  impatience  to  be  away 
I  had  not  added  my  columns  with  sufficient 
care.  The  inexorable  hand  of  the  office  clock 
pointed  sternly  toward  twelve,  and  the  re- 
morseless pendulum  ticked  solemnly  to  noon. 

To  a  man  whose  pleasures  are  not  many, 
and  rather  small,  the  loss  of  such  an  event  as 
saying  farewell  and  wishing  godspeed  to  a 
friend  going  to  Europe,  is  a  great  loss.  It 
was  so  to  me,  especially,  because  there  was  al- 
ways more  to  me,  in  every  departure,  than  the 
parting  and  the  farewell.  I  was  gradually  re- 
nouncing this  pleasure,  as  I  saw  small  pros- 
pect of  ending  before  noon,  when  Titbottoni, 
after  looking  at  me  a  moment,  came  to  my 
side  of  the  desk,  and  said : 

"  I  should  like  to  finish  that  for  you." 

I  looked  at  him ;  poor  Titbottom !  he  had  no 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  75 

friends  to  wish  godspeed  upon  any  journey. 
I  quietly  wiped  my  pen,  took  down  my  hat, 
and  went  out.  It  was  in  the  days  of  sail 
packets  and  less  regularity,  when  going  to 
Europe  was  more  of  an  epoch  in  life.  How 
gayly  my  cousin  stood  upon  the  deck  and  de- 
tailed to  me  her  plan !  How  merrily  the  chil- 
dren shouted  and  sang!  How  long  I  hold 
my  cousin's  little  hand  in  mine,  and  gazed  into 
her  great  eyes,  remembering  that  they  would 
see  and  touch  the  things  that  were  invisible  to 
me  forever,  but  all  the  more  precious  and  fair ! 
She  kissed  me — I  was  younger  then — there 
were  tears,  I  remember,  and  prayers,  and 
promises,  a  waving  handkerchief — a  fading 
sail. 

It  was  only  the  other  day  that  I  saw  an- 
other parting  of  the  same  kind.  I  was  not 
a  principal,  only  a  spectator;  but  so  fond  am 
I  of  sharing,  afar  off,  as  it  were,  and  unseen,, 
the  sympathies  of  human  beings,  that  I  cannot 
avoid  often  going  to  the  dock  upon  steamer- 
days,  and  giving  myself  to  that  pleasant  and 
melancholy  observation.  There  is  always  a 
crowd,  but  this  day  it  was  almost  impossible 
to  advance  through  the  masses  of  people. 
The  eager  faces  hurried  by ;  a  constant  stream- 
poured  up  the  gangway  into  the  steamer,  and! 


76  PRUE    AND    I. 

the  upper  deck,  to  which  I  gradually  made  my 
way,  was  crowded  \vith  the  passengers  and 
their  friends. 

There  was  one  group  upon  which  my  eyes 
first  fell,  and  upon  which  my  memory  lingers. 
A  glance,  brilliant  as  daybreak — a  voice, 

"  Her  voice's  music — call  it  the  well's  bubbling,  the 
bird's  warble," 

a  goddess  girdled  with  flowers,  and  smiling 
farewell  upon  a  circle  of  worshipers,  to  each 
one  of  whom  that  gracious  calmness  made  the 
smile  sweeter,  and  the  farewell  more  sad — 
other  figures,  other  flowers,  an  angel  face — all 
these  I  saw  in  that  group  as  I  was  swayed  up 
and  down  the  deck  by  the  eager  swarm  of 
people.  The  hour  came,  and  I  went  on  shore, 
with  the  rest.  The  plank  was  drawn  away 
— the  captain  raised  his  hand — the  huge 
steamer  slowly  moved — a  cannon  was  fired — 
the  ship  was  gone. 

The  sun  sparkled  upon  the  water  as  they 
sailed  away.  In  five  minutes  the  steamer  war* 
as  much  separated  from  the  shore  as  if  it  had 
been  at  sea  a  thousand  years. 

I  leaned  against  a  post  upon  the  dock  and 
looked  around.  Ranged  upon  the  edge  of  the 
wharf  stood  that  band  of  worshipers,  waving 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  77 

handkerchiefs  and  straining  their  eyes  to  see 
the  last  smile  of  farewell — did  any  eager  sel- 
fish eye  hope  to  see  a  tear  ?  They  to  whom  the 
handkerchiefs  were  waved  stood  high  upon 
the  stern,  holding  flowers.  Over  them  hung 
the  great  flag,  raised  by  the  gentle  wind  into 
the  graceful  folds  of  a  canopy — say  rather  a 
gorgeous  gonfalon  waved  over  the  triumph- 
ant departure,  over  that  supreme  youth,  and 
bloom,  and  beauty,  going  out  across  the  mys- 
tic ocean  to  carry  a  finer  charm  and  more  hu- 
man splendor  into  those  realms  of  my  imagi- 
nations beyond  the  sea. 

"  You  will  return,  O  youth  and  beauty !  "  I 
said  to  my  dreaming  and  foolish  self,  as  I  con- 
templated those  fair  figures,  "  richer  than  Al- 
exander with  Indian  spoils.  All  that  historic 
association,  that  copious  civilization,  those 
grandeurs  and  graces  of  art,  that  variety  and 
picturesqueness  of  life,  will  mellow  and 
deepen  your  experience  even  as  time  silently 
touches  those  old  pictures  into  a  more  per- 
suasive and  pathetic  beauty,  and  as  this  in- 
creasing summer  sheds  ever  softer  luster  upon 
the  landscape.  You  will  return  conquerors  and 
not  conquered.  You  will  bring  Europe,  even 
as  Aurelian  brought  Zenobia  captive,  to  deck 
your  homeward  triumph.  I  do  not  wonder 


78  PRUE    AND    I. 

that  these  clouds  break  away,  I  do  not  won- 
der that  the  sun  presses  out  and  floods  all  the 
.air,  and  land,  and  water,  with  light  that  graces 
with  happy  omens  your  stately  farewell." 

But  if  my  faded  face  looked  after  them  with 
such  earnest  and  longing  emotion — I,  a  soli- 
tary old  man,  unknown  to  those  fair  beings, 
and  standing  apart  from  that  band  of  lovers, 
yet  in  that  moment  bound  more  closely  to 
them  than  they  know — how  was  it  with  those 
whose  hearts  sailed  away  with  that  youth  and 
beauty?  I  watched  them  closely  from  be- 
hind my  post.  I  knew  that  life  had  paused 
•with  them ;  that  the  world  stood  still.  I  knew 
that  the  long,  long  summer  would  be  only  a 
yearning  regret.  I  knew  that  each  asked  him- 
self the  mournful  question,  "  Is  this  parting 
typical — this  slow,  sad,  sweet  recession  ? " 
And  I  knew  that  they  did  not  care  to  ask 
whether  they  should  meet  again,  nor  dare  to 
contemplate  the  chances  of  the  sea. 

The  steamer  swept  on,  she  was  near  Staten 
Island,  and  a  final  gun  boomed  far  and  low 
across  the  water.  The  crowd  was  dispersing, 
but  the  little  group  remained.  Was  it  not  all 
Hood  had  sung? 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  79 

44  I  saw  thee,  lovely  Inez, 
Descend  along  the  shore 
With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 
And  banners  waved  before; 
And  gentle  youths  and  maidens  gay, 
And  snowy  plumes  they  wore; 
It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 
If  it  had  been  no  more  !  " 

"  O  youth !  "  I  said  to  them  without  speak- 
ing, "  be  it  gently  said,  as  it  is  solemnly 
thought,  should  they  return  no  more,  yet  ir 
your  memories  the  high  hour  of  your  loveli- 
ness is  forever  enshrined.  Should  they  come 
no  more  they  never  will  be  old,  nor  changed 
to  you.  You  will  wax  and  wane,  you  will  suf 
f er,  and  struggle,  and  grow  old ;  but  this  sum- 
mer vision  will  smile,  immortal,  upon  your 
lives,  and  those  fair  faces  shall  shed,  forever, 
from  under  that  slowly  waving  flag,  hope  and 
peace." 

It  is  so  elsewhere;  it  is  the  tenderness  of 
Nature.  Long,  long  ago  we  lost  our  firstborn, 
Prue  and  I.  Since  then,  we  have  grown 
older  and  our  children  with  us.  Change 
comes,  and  grief,  perhaps,  and  decay.  We  are 
happy,  our  children  are  obedient  and  gay. 
But  should  Prue  live  until  she  has  lost  us  all, 
and  laid  us,  gray  and  weary,  in  our  graves, 
she  will  have  alwavs  one  babe  in  her  heart. 


80  PRUE    AND    I. 

Every  mother  who  has  lost  an  infant,  has 
gained  a  child  of  immortal  youth.  Can  you 
find  comfort  here,  lovers,  whose  mistress  has 
sailed  away? 

I  did  not  ask  the  question  aloud,  I  thought 
it  only,  as  I  watched  the  youths,  and  turned 
away  while  they  still  stood  gazing.  One,  I 
observed,  climbed  a  post  and  waved  his  black 
hat  before  the  whitewashed  side  of  the  shed 
over  the  dock,  whence  I  supposed  he  would 
tumble  into  the  water.  Another  had  tied  a 
handkerchief  to  the  end  of  a  somewhat  baggy 
umbrella,  and  in  the  eagerness  of  gazing,  had 
forgotten  to  wave  it,  so  that  it  hung  mourn- 
fully down,  as  if  overpowered  with  grief  it 
could  not  express.  The  entranced  youth  still 
held  the  umbrella  aloft.  It  seemed  to  me  as 
if  he  had  struck  his  flag;  or  as  if  one  of  my 
cravats  were  airing  in  that  sunlight.  A  ne- 
gro carter  was  joking  with  an  apple- woman 
at  the  entrance  of  the  dock.  The  steamer  was 
out  of  sight. 

I  found  that  I  was  belated  and  hurried  back 
to  my  desk.  Alas !  poor  lovers ;  I  wonder  if 
they  are  watching  still?  Has  he  fallen  ex- 
hausted from  the  post  into  the  water?  Is 
that  handkerchief,  bleached  and  rent,  still  pen- 
dant upon  that  somewhat  baggy  umbrella? 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  8 1 

"  Youth  and  beauty  went  to  Europe  to- 
day," said  I  to  Prue,  as  I  stirred  my  tea  at 
evening. 

As  I  spoke,  our  youngest  daughter  brought 
me  the  sugar.  She  is  just  eighteen,  and  her 
name  should  be  Hebe.  I  took  a  lump  of 
sugar  and  looked  at  her.  She  had  never 
seemed  so  lovely,  and  as  I  dropped  the  lump 
in  my  cup,  I  kissed  her.  I  glanced  at  Prue 
as  I  did  so.  The  dear  woman  smiled,  but  did 
not  answer  my  exclamation. 

Thus,  without  traveling,  I  travel,  and  share 
the  emotions  of  those  I  do  not  know.  But 
sometimes  the  old  longing  comes  over  me  as 
in  the  days  when  I  timidly  touched  the  huge 
East  Indiaman,  and  magnetically  sailed  round 
the  world. 

It  was  but  a  few  days  after  the  lovers  and  I 
waved  farewell  to  the  steamer,  and  while  the 
lovely  figures  standing  under  the  great  gon- 
falon were  as  vivid  in  my  mind  as  ever,  that  a 
day  of  premature  sunny  sadness,  like  those  of 
the  Indian  summer,  drew  me  away  from  the 
office  early  in  the  afternoon ;  for  fortunately  it 
is  our  dull  season  now,  and  even  Titbottom 
sometimes  leaves  the  office  by  five  o'clock. 
Although  why  he  should  leave  it,  or  where  he 
goes,  or  what  he  does,  I  do  not  well  know. 


82  PRUE    AND    I. 

Before  I  knew  him,  I  used  sometimes  to  meet 
him  with  a  man  whom  I  was  afterward  told 
was  Bartleby,  the  scrivener.  Even  then  it 
seemed  to  me  that  they  rather  clubbed  their 
loneliness  than  made  society  for  each  other. 
Recently  I  have  not  seen  Bartleby;  but  Tit- 
bottom  seems  no  more  solitary  because  he  is 
alone. 

I  strolled  into  the  Battery  as  I  sauntered 
about.  Staten  Island  looked  so  alluring,  ten- 
der-ruled with  summer  and  melting  in  the 
haze,  that  I  resolved  to  indulge  myself  in  a 
pleasure-trip.  It  was  a  little  selfish,  perhaps, 
to  go  alone,  but  I  looked  at  my  watch,  and  saw 
that  if  I  should  hurry  home  for  Prue  the  trip 
would  be  lost;  then  I  should  be  disappointed, 
and  she  would  be  grieved. 

Ought  I  not  rather  (I  like  to  begin  ques- 
tions, which  I  am  going  to  answer  affirma- 
tively, with  ought)  to  take  the  trip  and  recount 
my  adventures  to  Prue  upon  my  return, 
whereby  I  should  actually  enjoy  the  excursion 
and  the  pleasure  of  telling  her;  while  she 
would  enjoy  my  story  and  be  glad  that  I  was 
pleased  ?  Ought  I  willfully  to  deprive  us  both 
of  this  various  enjoyment  by  aiming  at  a 
higher,  which,  in  losing,  we  should  lose  all  ? 

Unfortunately,  just  as  I  was  triumphantly 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  83 

answering  "  Certainly  not !  "  another  ques- 
tion marched  into  my  mind,  escorted  by  a  very 
defiant  ought. 

"  Ought  I  to  go  when  I  have  such  a  debate 
about  it?" 

But  while  I  was  perplexed,  and  scoffing  at 
my  own  scruples,  the  ferry-bell  suddenly  rang, 
and  answered  all  my  questions.  Involun- 
tarily I  hurried  on  board.  The  boat  slipped 
from  the  dock.  I  went  up  on  deck  to  enjoy 
the  view  of  the  city  from  the  bay,  but  just  as 
I  sat  down,  and  meant  to  have  said  "  how 
beautiful !  "  I  found  myself  asking : 

"  Ought  I  to  have  come?  " 

Lost  in  perplexing  debate,  I  saw  little  of  the 
scenery  of  the  bay;  but  the  remembrance  of 
Prue  and  the  gentle  influence  of  the  day 
plunged  me  into  a  mood  of  pensive  reverie 
which  nothing  tended  to  destroy,  until  we  sud- 
denly arrived  at  the  landing. 

As  I  was  stepping  ashore,  I  was  greeted  by 
Mr.  Bourne,  who  passes  the  summer  on  the 
island,  and  who  hospitably  asked  if  I  were 
going  his  way.  His  way  was  toward  the 
southern  end  of  the  island,  and  I  said  yes. 
His  pockets  were  full  of  papers  and  his  brow 
of  wrinkles;  so  when  we  reached  the  point 
where  he  should  turn  off,  I  asked  him  to  let 


84  PRUE    AND    I. 

me  alight,  although  he  was  very  anxious  to 
carry  me  wherever  I  was  going. 

"  I  am  only  strolling  about,"  I  answered,, 
as  I  clambered  carefully  out  of  the  wagon. 

"  Strolling  about  ?  "  asked  he,  in  a  bewil- 
dered manner ;  "  do  people  stroll  about,  now- 
adays?" 

"  Sometimes,"  I  answered,  smiling,  as  I 
pulled  my  trousers  down  over  my  boots,  for 
they  had  dragged  up,  as  I  stepped  out  of  the 
wagon,  "  and  besides,  what  can  an  old  book- 
keeper do  better  in  the  dull  season  than  stroll 
about  this  pleasant  island,  and  watch  the  ships 
at  sea?" 

Bourne  looked  at  me  with  his  weary  eyes. 

"  I'd  give  five  thousand  dollars  a  year  for  a 
dull  season,"  said  he,  "  but  as  for  strolling, 
I've  forgotten  how." 

As  he  spoke,  his  eyes  wandered  dreamily 
across  the  fields  and  woods,  and  were  fastened 
upon  the  distant  sails. 

"  It  is  pleasant,"  he  said  musingly,  and  fell 
into  silence.  But  I  had  no  time  to  spare,  so  I 
wished  him  good-afternoon. 

"  I  hope  your  wife  is  well,"  said  Bourne  to 
me,  as  I  turned  away.  Poor  Bourne !  He 
drove  on  alone  in  his  wagon. 

But  I  made  haste  to  the  most  solitary  point 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  85 

upon  the  southern  shore,  and  there  sat,  glad  to 
be  so  near  the  sea.  There  was  that  warm, 
sympathetic  silence  in  the  air  that  gives  to  In- 
dian summer  days  almost  a  human  tenderness 
of  feeling.  A  delicate  haze,  that  seemed  only 
the  kindly  air  made  visible,  hung  over  the  sea. 
The  water  lapped  languidly  among  the  rocks, 
and  the  voices  of  children,  in  a  boat  beyond, 
rang  musically,  and  gradually  receded,  until 
they  were  lost  in  the  distance. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  was  aware  of  the 
outline  of  a  large  ship,  drawn  vaguely  upon 
the  mist,  which  I  supposed,  at  first,  to  be  only 
a  kind  of  mirage.  But  the  more  steadfastly 
I  gazed,  the  more  distinct  it  became,  and  I 
could  no  longer  doubt  that  I  saw  a  stately  ship 
lying  at  anchor,  not  more  than  half  a  mile 
from  the  land. 

"  It  is  an  extraordinary  place  to  anchor,"  I 
said  to  myself,  "  or  can  she  be  ashore  ?  " 

There  were  no  signs  of  distress ;  the  sails 
were  carefully  clewed  up,  and  there  were  no 
sailors  in  the  tops  nor  upon  the  shrouds.  A 
flag,  of  which  I  could  not  see  the  device  or 
the  nation,  hung  heavily  at  the  stern,  and 
looked  as  if  it  had  fallen  asleep.  My  curiosity 
began  to  be  singularly  excited.  The  form  of 
Jie  vessel  seemed  not  to  be  permanent;  but 


86  PRUE    AND    I. 

within  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  I  was  sure  that  I 
had  seen  half  a  dozen  different  ships.  As  I 
gazed,  I  saw  no  more  sails  nor  masts,  but  a 
long  range  of  oars,  flashing  like  a  golden 
fringe,  or  straight  and  stiff,  like  the  legs  of  a 
sea-monster. 

"  It  is  some  bloated  crab,  or  lobster,  magni- 
fied by  the  mist,"  I  said  to  myself  compla- 
cently. 

But,  at  the  same  moment,,  there  was  a  con- 
centrated flashing  and  blazing  in  one  spot 
among  the  rigging,  and  it  was  as  if  I  saw  a 
beautified  ram,  or,  more  truly,  a  sheepskin 
splendid  as  the  hair  of  Berenice. 

"Is  that  the  golden  fleece?"  I  thought. 
"  But  surely,  Jason  and  the  Argonauts  have 
gone  home  long  since.  Do  people  go  on  gold- 
fleecing  expeditions  now  ?  "  I  asked  myself  in 
perplexity.  "  Can  this  be  a  California 
steamer  ?  " 

How  could  I  have  thought  it  a  steamer? 
Did  I  not  see  those  sails,  "  thin  and  sere  ?  " 
Did  I  not  feel  the  melancholy  of  that  solitary 
bark?  It  had  a  mystic  aura;  a  boreal  bril- 
liancy shimmered  in  its  wake,  for  it  was  drift- 
ing seaward.  A  strange  fear  curdled  along 
my  veins.  That  summer  sun  shone  cool. 
The  weary,  battered  ship  was  gashed,  as  if 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  87 

gnawed  by  ice.  There  was  terror  in  the  air,, 
as  a  "  skinny  hand  so  brown  "  waved  to  me 
from  the  deck.  I  lay  as  one  bewitched.  The 
hand  of  the  ancient  mariner  seemed  to  be 
reaching  for  me,  like  the  hand  of  death. 

Death  ?  Why,  as  I  was  inly  praying  Prue's 
forgiveness  for  my  solitary  ramble  and  con- 
sequent demise,  a  glance  like  the  fullness  of 
snmmer  splendor  gushed  over  me ;  the  odor  of 
flowers  and  of  Eastern  gums  made  all  the  at- 
mosphere. I  breathed  the  Orient,  and  lay- 
drunk  with  balm,  while  that  strange  ship,  a 
golden  galley  now,  with  glittering  draperies 
festooned  with  flowers,  paced  to  the  measured 
beat  of  oars  along  the  calm,  and  Cleopatra 
smiled  alluringly  from  the  great  pageant's 
heart. 

Was  this  a  barge  for  summer  waters,  this 
peculiar  ship  I  saw  ?  It  had  a  ruined  dignity, 
a  cumbrous  grandeur,  although  its  masts 
were  shattered,  and  its  sails  rent.  It  hung 
preternaturally  still  upon  the  sea,  as  if  tor- 
mented and  exhausted  by  long  driving  and 
drifting.  I  saw  no  sailors,  but  a  great  Span- 
ish ensign  floated  over,  and  waved,  a  funeral 
plume.  I  knew  it  then.  The  armada  was 
long  since  scattered ;  but,  floating  far 
"  on  desolate,  rainy  seas," 


-88  PRUE    AND    I. 

lost  for  centuries,  and  again  restored  to  sight, 
liere  lay  one  of  the  fated  ships  of  Spain.  The 
huge  galleon  seemed  to  fill  all  the  air,  built  up 
against  the  sky,  like  the  gilded  ships  of  Claude 
Lorraine  against  the  sunset. 

But  it  fled,  for  now  a  black  flag  fluttered  at 
the  mast  head — a  long,  low  vessel  darted 
swiftly  where  the  vast  ship  lay;  there  came  a 
shrill  piping  whistle,  the  clash  of  cutlasses, 
fierce  ringing  oaths,  sharp  pistol  cracks,  the 
thunder  of  command,  and  over  all  the  gusty 
yell  of  a  demoniac  chorus, 

"  My  name  was  Robert  Kidd,  when  I  sailed." 

— There  were  no  clouds  longer,  but  under  a 
serene  sky  I  saw  a  bark  moving  with  festal 
pomp,  thronged  with  grave  senators  in  flow- 
ing robes,  and  one  with  ducal  bonnet  in  the 
midst,  holding  a  ring.  The  smooth  bark 
swam  upon  a  sea  like  that  of  southern  lati- 
tudes. I  saw  the  Bucentoro  and  the  nuptials 
of  Venice  and  the  Adriatic. 

Who  were  those  coming  over  the  side? 
Who  crowded  the  boats  and  sprang  into  the 
water,  men  in  old  Spanish  armor,  with  plumes 
and  swords,  and  bearing  a  glittering  cross? 
Who  was  he  standing  upon  the  deck  with 
folded  arms  and  gazing  toward  the  shore,  as 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  89 

lovers  on  their  mistresses,  and  martyrs  upon 
heaven?  Over  what  distant  and  tumultuous 
seas  had  this  small  craft  escaped  from  other 
centuries  and  distant  shores?  What  sounds 
of  foreign  hymns,  forgotten  now,  were  these, 
and  what  solemnity  of  debarkation?  Was 
this  grave  form  Columbus? 

Yet  these  were  not  so  Spanish  as  they 
seemed  just  now.  This  group  of  stern- faced 
men  with  high-peaked  hats,  who  knelt  upon 
the  cold  deck  and  looked  out  upon  a  shore 
which,  I  could  see  by  their  joyless  smile  of 
satisfaction,  was  rough,  and  bare,  and  forbid- 
ding. In  that  soft  afternoon,  standing  in 
mournful  groups  upon  the  small  deck,  why 
did  they  seem  to  me  to  be  seeing  the  sad  shores 
of  wintry  New  England?  That  phantom- 
ship  could  not  be  the  Mayfioiver! 

I  gazed  long  upon  the  shifting  illusion. 

"  If  I  should  board  this  ship,"  I  asked  my- 
self, "where  should  I  go?  whom  should  I 
meet  ?  what  should  I  see  ?  Is  not  this  the  ves- 
sel that  shall  carry  me  to  my  Europe,  my  for- 
eign countries,  my  impossible  India,  the  At- 
lantis that  I  have  lost  ?  " 

As  I  sat  staring  at  it  I  could  not  but  wonder 
whether  Bourne  had  seen  this  sail  when  he 
looked  upon  the  water?  Does  he  see  such 


90  PRUE    AND    I. 

sights  every  day,  because  he  lives  here?  Is  it 
not  perhaps  a  magic  yacht  of  his;  and  does 
lie  slip  off  privately  after  business  hours  to 
Venice,  and  Spain,  and  Egypt,  perhaps  to  El 
Dorado?  Does  he  run  races  with  Ptolemy 
Philopater,  and  Hiero  of  Syracuse,  race  re- 
gattas on  fabulous  seas? 

Why  not?  He  is  a  rich  man,  too,  and  why 
should  not  a  New  York  merchant  do  what  a 
Syracuse  tyrant  and  an  Egyptian  prince  did? 
Has  Bourne's  yacht  those  sumptuous  cham- 
bers, like  Philopater's  galley,  of  which  the 
.greater  part  was  made  of  split  cedar,  and  of 
Milesian  cypress ;  and  has  he  twenty  doors  put 
together  with  beams  of  citron-wood,  with 
many  ornaments?  Has  the  roof  of  his  cabin 
•a  carved  golden  face,  and  is  his  sail  linen  with 
a  purple  fringe? 

"  I  suppose  it  is  so,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I 
looked  wistfully  at  the  ship,  which  began  to 
•glimmer  and  melt  in  the  haze. 

"It  certainly  is  not  a  fishing  smack?" 
I  asked  doubtfully. 

No,  it  must  be  Bourne's  magic  yacht ;  I  was 
sure  of  it.  I  could  not  help  laughing  at  poor 
old  Hiero,  whose  cabins  were  divided  into 
many  rooms,  with  floors  composed  of  mosaic 
work,  of  all  kinds  of  stones  tessellated.  And, 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  9! 

on  this  mosaic,  the  whole  story  of  the  Iliad  was 
depicted  in  a  marvelous  manner.  He  had 
gardens  "  of  all  sorts  of  most  wonderful 
beauty,  enriched  with  all  sorts  of  plants,  and 
shadowed  by  roofs  of  lead  or  tiles.  And,  be- 
sides this,  there  were  tents  roofed  with. 
boughs  of  white  ivy  and  of  the  vine — the  roots 
of  which  derived  their  moisture  from  casks 
full  of  earth,  and  were  watered  in  the  same 
manner  as  the  gardens.  There  were  temples^ 
also,  with  doors  of  ivory  and  citron-wood,  fur- 
nished in  the  most  exquisite  manner,  with 
pictures  and  statues,  and  with  goblets  and. 
vases  ©f  every  form  and  shape  imaginable." 

"  Poor  Bourne !  "  I  said,  "  I  suppose  his  is 
finer  than  Hiero's,  which  is  a  thousand  years 
old.  Poor  Bourne !  I  don't  wonder  that  his 
eyes  are  weary,  and  that  he  would  pay  so- 
dearly  for  a  day  of  leisure.  Dear  me !  is  it  one 
of  the  prices  that  must  be  paid  for  wealth,  the 
keeping  up  a  magic  yacht  ?  " 

Involuntarily,  I  had  asked  the  question* 
aloud. 

"  The  magic  yacht  is  not  Bourne's,"  an- 
swered a  familiar  voice.  I  looked  up,  and 
Titbottom  stood  by  my  side.  "  Do  you  not 
know  that  all  Bourne's  money  would  not  buy 
the  yacht  ?  "  asked  he.  "  He  cannot  even  see 


92  PRUE    AND    I. 

it.  And  if  he  could,  it  would  be  no  magic 
yacht  to  him,  but  only  a  battered  and  solitary 
hulk." 

The  haze  blew  gently  away,  as  Titbottom 
spoke,  and  there  lay  my  Spanish  galleon,  my 
Bucentoro,  my  Cleopatra's  galley,  Columbus' 
Santa  Maria,  and  the  Pilgrim's  Mayflower, 
an  old  bleaching  wreck  upon  the  beach. 

"  Do  you  suppose  any  true  love  is  in  vain  ?  " 
asked  Titbottom  solemnly,  as  he  stood  bare- 
lieaded,  and  the  soft  sunset  wind  played  with 
liis  few  hairs.  "  Could  Cleopatra  smile  upon 
Antony,  and  the  moon  upon  Endymion,  and 
the  sea  not  love  its  lovers  ?  " 

The  fresh  air  breathed  upon  our  faces  as 
"he  spoke.  I  might  have  sailed  in  Hiero's 
ship,  or  in  Roman  galleys,  had  I  lived  cen- 
turies ago,  and  been  born  a  nobleman.  But 
would  it  be  so  sweet  a  remembrance,  that  of 
lying  on  a  marble  couch,  under  a  golden- faced 
roof,  and  within  doors  of  citron-wood  and 
ivory,  and  sailing  in  that  state  to  greet  queens 
who  are  mummies  now,  as  that  of  seeing  those 
fair  figures  standing  under  the  great  gonfalon, 
themselves  as  lovely  as  Egyptian  belles,  and 
going  to  see  more  than  Egypt  dreamed  ? 

The  yacht  was  mine,  then,  and  not 
Bourne's.  I  took  Titbottom's  arm,  and  we 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  93 

sauntered  toward  the  ferry.  What  sumptu- 
ous sultan  was  I,  with  this  sad  vizier?  My 
languid  odalisque,  the  sea,  lay  at  my  feet  as 
we  advanced,  and  sparkled  all  over  with  a  sun- 
set smile.  Had  I  trusted  myself  to  her  arms,, 
to  be  borne  to  the  realms  that  I  shall  never 
see,  or  sailed  long  voyages  toward  Cathay,  I 
am  not  sure  I  should  have  brought  a  more 
precious  present  to  Prue,  than  the  story  of 
that  afternoon. 

"Ought  I  to  have  gone  alone?"  I  asked 
her,  as  I  ended. 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  gone  with  you,"  she 
replied,  "  for  I  had  work  to  do.  But  how 
strange  that  you  should  see  such  things  at 
Staten  Island.  I  never  did,  Mr.  Titbottom,"' 
said  she,  turning  to  my  deputy,  whom  I  had 
asked  to  tea. 

"  Madam,"  answered  Titbottom,  with  a  kind 
of  wan  and  quaint  dignity,  so  that  I  could  not 
help  thinking  he  must  have  arrived  in  that 
stray  ship  from  the  Spanish  armada,  "  neither 
did  Mr.  Bourne." 


TITBOTTOM'S   SPECTACLES. 

"  In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio." 

—Hamlet. 

PRUE  and  I  do  not  entertain  much;  our 
means  forbid  it.  In  truth,  other  people  enter- 
tain for  us.  We  enjoy  that  hospitality  of 
which  no  account  is  made.  We  see  the  show, 
.and  hear  the  music,  and  smell  the  flowers,  of 
.great  festivities,  tasting,  as  it  were,  the  drip- 
pings from  rich  dishes. 

Our  own  dinner  service  is  remarkably  plain, 
our  dinners,  even  on  state  occasions,  are  strictly 
in  keeping,  and  almost  our  only  guest  is  Tit- 
bottom.  I  buy  a  handful  of  roses  as  I  come 
.up  from  the  office,  perhaps,  and  Prue  arranges 
them  so  prettily  in  a  glass  dish  for  the  center 
of  the  table,  that,  even  when  I  have  hurried 
out  to  see  Aurelia  step  into  her  carriage  to  go 
•out  to  dine,  I  have  thought  that  the  bouquet 
she  carried  was  not  more  beautiful  because  it 
Avas  more  costly. 

I  grant  that  it  was  more  harmonious  with 
her  superb  beauty  and  her  rich  attire.  And 

94 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.  95 

I  have  no  doubt  that  if  Aurelia  knew  the  old 
man,  whom  she  must  have  seen  so  often  watch- 
ing her,  and  his  wife,  who  ornaments  her  sex 
with  as  much  sweetness,  although  with  less 
splendor  than  Aurelia  herself,  she  would  also 
acknowledge  that  the  nosegay  of  roses  was  as 
fine  and  fit  upon  their  table,  as  her  own 
sumptuous  bouquet  is  for  herself.  I  have  so 
much  faith  in  the  perception  of  that  lovely 
lady. 

It  is  my  habit — I  hope  I  may  say,  my  nature 
— to  believe  the  best  of  people,  rather  than  the 
worst.  If  I  thought  that  all  this  sparkling 
setting  of  beauty,  this  fine  fashion — these  blaz- 
ing jewels,  and  lustrous  silks,  and  airy  gauzes, 
embellished  with  gold-threaded  embroidery, 
and  wrought  in  a  thousand  exquisite  elabora- 
tions, so  that  I  cannot  see  one  of  those  lovely 
girls  pass  me  by  without  thanking  God  for 
the  vision — if  I  thought  that  this  was  all,  and 
that,  underneath  her  lace  flounces  and  dia- 
mond bracelets,  Aurelia  was  a  sullen,  selfish 
woman,  then  I  should  turn  sadly  homeward, 
for  I  should  see  that  her  jewels  were  flashing 
scorn  upon  the  object  they  adorned,  that  her 
laces  were  of  a  more  exquisite  loveliness  than 
the  woman  whom  they  merely  touched  with  a 
superficial  grace.  It  would  be  Irke  a  gayly 


96  PRUE    AND    I. 

decorated  mausoleum,  bright  to  see,  but  silent 
and  dark  within. 

"  Great  excellences,  my  dear  Prue,"  I 
sometimes  allow  myself  to  say,  "  lie  concealed 
in  the  depths  of  character,  like  pearls  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea.  Under  the  laughing, 
glancing  surface,  how  little  they  are  sus- 
pected !  Perhaps  love  is  nothing  else  than  the 
sight  of  them  by  one  person.  Hence  every 
man's  mistress  is  apt  to  be  an  enigma  to  every- 
body else. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  when  Aurelia  is  en- 
gaged, people  will  say  she  is  a  most  admirable 
girl,  certainly;  but  they  cannot  understand 
why  any  man  should  be  in  love  with  her.  As 
if  it  were  at  all  necessary  that  they  should! 
And  her  lover,  like  a  boy  who  finds  a  pearl  in 
the  public  street,  and  wonders  as  much  as  that 
others  did  not  see  it  as  that  he  did,  \vill  trem- 
ble until  he  knows  his  passion  is  returned ;  feel- 
ing, of  course,  that  the  whole  world  must  be 
in  love  with  this  paragon,  who  cannot  possi- 
bly smile  upon  anything  so  unworthy  as  he. 

"  I  hope,  therefore,  my  dear  Mrs.  Prue,"  I 
continue,  and  my  wife  looks  up,  with  pleased 
pride,  from  her  work,  as  if  I  were  such  an  ir- 
resistible humorist,  "  you  will  allow  me  to  be- 
lieve that  the  depth  may  be  calm,  although  the 


TITBOTTOM  S    SPECTACLES.  97 

surface  is  dancing.  If  you  tell  me  that  Au- 
relia  is  but  a  giddy  girl,  I  shall  believe  that 
you  think  so.  But  I  shall  know,  all  the  while, 
what  profound  dignity,  and  sweetness,  and 
peace  lie  at  the  foundation  of  her  character." 

I  say  such  things  to  Titbottom,  during  the 
dull  season  at  the  office.  And  I  have  known 
him  sometimes  to  reply,  with  a  kind  of  dry, 
sad  humor,  not  as  if  he  enjoyed  the  joke,  but 
as  if  the  joke  must  be  made,  that  he  saw  no 
reason  why  I  should  be  dull  because  the  sea- 
son was  so. 

"  And  what  do  I  know  of  Aurelia,  or  any 
other  girl  ?  "  he  says  to  me  with  that  abstracted 
air ;  "  I,  whose  Aurelias  were  of  another  cen- 
tury, and  another  zone." 

Then  he  falls  into  a  silence  which  it  seems 
quite  profane  to  interrupt.  But  as  we  sit  upon 
our  high  stools,  at  the  desk,  opposite  each 
other,  I  leaning  upon  my  elbows,  and  looking 
at  him,  he,  with  sidelong  face,  glancing  out  of 
the  window,  as  if  it  commanded  a  boundless 
landscape,  instead  of  a  dim,  dingy  office  court, 
I  cannot  refrain  from  saying: 

"  Well !  " 

He  turns  slowly,  and  I  go  chatting  on — a 
little  too  loquacious,  perhaps,  about  those 
young  girls.  But  I  know  that  Titbottom  re- 


98  PRUE    AND    I. 

gards  such  an  excess  as  venial,  for  his  sadness 
is  so  sweet  that  you  could  believe  it  the  re- 
flection of  a  smile  from  long,  long  years  ago. 

One  day  after  I  had  been  talking  for  a 
long  time,  and  we  had  put  up  our  books,  and 
were  preparing  to  leave,  he  stood  for  some 
time  by  the  window  gazing  with  a  drooping, 
intentness,  as  if  he  really  saw  something  more 
than  the  dark  court,  and  said  slowly: 

"  Perhaps  you  would  have  different  impres- 
sions of  things,  if  you  saw  them  through  my 
spectacles." 

There  was  no  change  in  his  expression. 
He  still  looked  from  the  window,  and  I  said : 

"  Titbottom,  I  did  not  know  that  you  used 
glasses.  I  have  never  seen  you  wearing  spec- 
tacles." 

"  No,  I  don't  often  wear  them.  I  am  not 
very  fond  of  looking  through  them.  But 
sometimes  an  irresistible  necessity  compels  me 
to  put  them  on,  and  I  cannot  help  seeing." 

Titbottom  sighed. 

"  Is  it  so  grievous  a  fate  to  see?  "  inquired  I. 

"  Yes ;  through  my  spectacles,"  he  said, 
turning  slowly,  and  looking  at  me  with  wan 
solemnity. 

It  grew  dark  as  we  stood  in  the  office  talk- 
ing, and,  taking  our  hats,  we  went  out  to- 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.  99 

gether.  The  narrow  street  of  business  was 
deserted.  The  heavy  iron  shutters  were 
gloomily  closed  over  the  windows.  From  one 
or  two  offices  struggled  the  dim  gleam  of  an 
early  candle,  by  whose  light  some  perplexed 
accountant  sat  belated,  and  hunting  for  his 
error.  A  careless  clerk  passed,  whistling. 
But  the  great  tide  of  life  had  ebbed.  We 
heard  its  roar  far  away,  and  the  sound  stole 
into  that  silent  street  like  the  murmur  of  the 
ocean  into  an  inland  dell. 

"  You  will  come  and  dine  with  us,  Titbot- 
tom?" 

He  assented  by  continuing  to  walk  with  me, 
and  I  think  we  were  both  glad  when  we 
reached  the  house,  and  Prue  came  to  meet  us, 
saying : 

"  Do  you  know  I  hoped  you  would  bring 
Mr.  Titbottom  to  dine  ?  " 

Titbottom  smiled  gently,  and  I  answered : 

"  He  might  have  brought  his  spectacles 
with  him,  and  have  been  a  happier  man  for 
it." 

Prue  looked  a  little  puzzled. 

"  My  dear,"  I  said,  "  you  must  know  that 
our  friend  Mr.  Titbottom  is  the  happy  pos- 
sessor of  a  pair  of  wonderful  spectacles.  I 
have  never  seen  them,  indeed ;  and,  from  what 


IOO  PRUE    AND    I. 

he  says,  I  should  be  rather  afraid  of  being 
seen  by  them.  Most  short-sighted  persons 
are  very  glad  to  have  the  help  of  glasses ;  but 
Mr.  Titbottom  seems  to  find  very  little  pleas- 
ure in  his." 

"It  is  because  they  make  him  too  far- 
sighted,  perhaps,"  interrupted  Prue,  quietly, 
as  she  took  the  silver  soup  ladle  from  the  side- 
board. 

We  sipped  our  wine  after  dinner,  and  Prue 
took  her  work.  Can  a  man  be  too  far- 
sighted?  I  did  not  ask  the  question  aloud. 
The  very  tone  in  which  Prue  had  spoken,  con- 
vinced me  that  he  might. 

"  At  least,"  I  said,  "  Mr.  Titbottom  will  not 
refuse  to  tell  us  the  history  of  his  mysterious 
spectacles.  I  have  known  plenty  of  magic  in 
eyes  [and  I  glanced  at  the  tender  blue  eyes 
of  Prue],  but  I  have  not  heard  of  any  en- 
chanted glasses." 

"  Yet  you  must  have  seen  the  glass  in 
which  your  wife  looks  every  morning,  and,  I 
take  it,  that  glass  must  be  daily  enchanted," 
said  Titbottom,  with  a  bow  of  quaint  respect 
to  my  wife. 

T  do  not  think  I  have  seen  such  a  blush  upon 
Prue's  cheek  since — well,  since  a  great  many 
years  ago. 


TITBOTTOM  S  SPECTACLES.        IOI 

"  I  will  gladly  tell  you  the  history  of  my 
spectacles,"  began  Titbottom.  "  It  is  very 
simple;  and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  a  great 
many  other  people  have  not  a  pair  of  the  same 
kind.  I  have  never,  indeed,  heard  of  them  by 
the  gross,  like  those  of  our  young  friend, 
Moses,  the  son  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  In 
fact,  I  think  a  gross  would  be  quite  enough  to 
supply  the  world.  It  is  a  kind  of  article  for 
which  the  demand  does  not  increase  with  use. 
If  we  should  all  wear  spectacles  like  mine, 
we  should  never  smile  any  more.  Or — I 
am  not  quite  sure — we  should  all  be  very 
happy." 

"  A  very  important  difference,"  said  Prue, 
counting  her  stitches. 

"  You  know  my  grandfather  Titbottom  was 
a  West  Indian.  A  large  proprietor,  and  an 
easy  man,  he  basked  in  the  tropical  sun,  lead- 
ing his  quiet,  luxurious  life.  He  lived  much 
alone,  and  was  what  people  called  eccentric — 
by  which  I  understand,  that  he  was  very  much 
himself,  and  refusing  the  influence  of  other 
people,  they  had  their  revenges  and  called  him 
names.  It  is  a  habit  not  exclusively  tropical. 
I  think  I  have  seen  the  same  thing  even  in 
this  city. 

"  But  he  was  greatly  beloved — my  bland 


102  PRUE    AND    I. 

and  bountiful  grandfather.  He  was  so  large- 
hearted  and  open-handed.  He  was  sc 
friendly  and  thoughtful  and  genial  that  even 
his  jokes  had  the  air  of  graceful  benedictions. 
He  did  not  seem  to  gro\v  old,  and  he  was  one 
of  those  who  never  appear  to  have  been  very 
young.  He  flourished  in  a  perennial  ma- 
turity, an  immortal  middle  age. 

"  My  grandfather  lived  upon  one  of  the 
small  islands — St.  Kitts,  perhaps — and  his 
domain  extended  to  the  sea.  His  house,  a 
rambling  West  Indian  mansion,  was  sur- 
rounded with  deep,  spacious  piazzas,  covered 
with  luxurious  lounges,  among  which  one 
capacious  chair  \vas  his  peculiar  seat.  They 
tell  me,  he  used  sometimes  to  sit  there  for  the 
whole  day,  his  great,  soft,  brown  eyes  fas- 
tened upon  the  sea,  watching  the  specks  of 
sails  that  flashed  upon  the  horizon,  while  the 
evanescent  expressions  chased  each  other  over 
his  placid  face  as  if  it  reflected  the  calm  and 
changing  sea  before  him.  His  morning  cos- 
tume was  an  ample  dressing-gown  of  gor- 
geous flowered  silk,  and  his  morning  was  verv 
apt  to  last  all  day.  He  rarely  read;  but  he 
would  pace  the  great  piazza  for  hours,  with 
his  hands  buried  in  the  pockets  of  his  dress- 
ing-gown, and  an  air  of  sweet  reverie,  which 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.  103: 

any  book  must  be  a  very  entertaining  one  to» 
produce. 

"  Society,  of  course,  he  saw  little.  There 
was  some  slight  apprehension  that,  if  he  were 
bidden  to  social  entertainments,  he  might  for- 
get his  coat,  or  arrive  without  some  other  es- 
sential part  of  his  dress ;  and  there  is  a  sly 
tradition  in  the  Titbottom  family,  that  once,, 
having  been  invited  to  a  ball  in  honor  of  a 
new  governor  of  the  island,  my  grandfather 
Titbottom  sauntered  into  the  hall  toward  mid- 
night, wrapped  in  the  gorgeous  flowers  of  his 
dressing-gown,  and  with  his  hands  buried  in 
the  pockets,  as  usual.  There  was  great  excite- 
ment among  the  guests,  and  immense  depreca- 
tion of  gubernatorial  ire.  Fortunately,  it 
happened  that  the  governor  and  my  grand- 
father were  old  friends,  and  there  was  no 
offense.  But,  as  they  were  conversing  to- 
gether, one  of  the  distressed  managers  cast 
indignant  glances  at  the  brilliant  costume  of 
my  grandfather,  \vho  summoned  him,  and 
asked  courteously: 

"  '  Did  you  invite  me,  or  my  coat  ?  ' 

" '  You,  in  a  proper  coat,'  replied  the  man- 
ager. 

"  The  governor  smiled  approvingly,  and 
looked  at  my  grandfather. 


304  PRUE    AND    I. 

" '  My  friend/  said  he  to  the  manager,  '  I 
t>eg  your  pardon,  I  forgot.' 

"  The  next  day,  my  grandfather  was  seen 
promenading  in  full  ball-dress  along  the 
streets  of  the  little  town. 

"  '  They  ought  to  know,'  said  he,  '  that  I 
have  a  proper  coat,  and  that  not  contempt,  nor 
poverty,  but  forgetfulness,  sent  me  to  a  ball 
in  my  dressing-gown.' 

"  He  did  not  much  frequent  social  festivals 
after  this  failure,  but  he  always  told  the  story 
Tvith  satisfaction  and  a  quiet  smile. 

"  To  a  stranger,  life  upon  those  little  islands 
is  uniform  even  to  weariness.  But  the  old 
native  dons,  like  my  grandfather,  ripen  in  the 
prolonged  sunshine  like  the  turtle  upon  the 
Bahama  banks,  nor  know  of  existence  more 
•desirable.  Life  in  the  tropics,  I  take  to  be  a 
placid  torpidity. 

"  During  the  long,  warm  mornings  of 
nearly  half  a  century,  my  grandfather  Tit- 
bottom  had  sat  in  his  dressing-gown,  and 
gazed  at  the  sea.  But  one  calm  June  day,  as 
"he  slowly  paced  the  piazza  after  breakfast, 
his  dreamy  glance  was  arrested  by  a  little  ves- 
sel, evidently  nearing  the  shore.  He  called 
for  his  spyglass,  and,  surveying  the  craft,  saw 
that  she  came  from  the  neighboring  island. 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.  105 

She  glided  smoothly,  slowly,  over  the  summer 
sea.  The  warm  morning  air  was  sweet  with 
perfumes,  and  silent  with  heat.  The  sea 
sparkled  languidly,  and  the  brilliant  blue  sky 
hung  cloudlessly  over.  Scores  of  little  island 
vessels  had  my  grandfather  seen  coming  over 
the  horizon,  and  casting  anchor  in  the  port. 
Hundreds  of  summer  mornings  had  the  white 
sails  flashed  and  faded  like  vague  faces 
through  forgotten  dreams.  But  this  time  he 
laid  down  the  spyglass,  and  leaned  against  a 
column  of  the  piazza.,  and  watched  the  vessel 
with  an  intentness  that  he  could  not  explain. 
She  came  nearer  and  nearer,  a  graceful  specter 
in  the  dazzling  morning. 

"  '  Decidedly,  I  must  step  down  and  see 
about  that  vessel/  said  my  grandfather  Tit- 
bottom. 

"  He  gathered  his  ample  dressing-gown 
about  him,  and  stepped  from  the  piazza,  with 
no  other  protection  from  the  sun  than  the  little 
smoking-cap  upon  his  head.  His  face  wore  a 
calm,  beaming  smile,  as  if  he  loved  the  whole 
world.  He  was  not  an  old  man;  but  there 
was  almost  a  patriarchal  pathos  in  his  ex- 
pression, as  he  sauntered  along  in  the  sunshine 
toward  the  shore.  A  group  of  idle  gazers 
was  collected,  to  watch  the  arrival.  The  little 


306  PRUE    AND    I. 

vessel  furled  her  sails,  and  drifted  slowly 
landward,  and,  as  she  was  of  very  light  draft, 
she  came  close  to  the  shelving  shore.  A  long 
plank  was  put  out  from  her  side,  and  the  de- 
barkation commenced. 

"  My  grandfather  Titbottom  stood  looking 
•on,  to  see  the  passengers  as  they  passed. 
There  were  but  a  few  of  them,  and  mostly 
traders  from  the  neighboring  island.  But 
suddenly  the  face  of  a  young  girl  appeared 
over  the  side  of  the  vessel,  and  she  stepped 
upon  the  plank  to  descend.  My  grandfather 
Titbottom  instantly  advanced,  and,  moving 
briskly,  reached  the  top  of  the  plank  at  the 
same  moment,  and  with  the  old  tassel  of  his 
cap  flashing  in  the  sun,  and  one  hand  in  the 
pocket  of  his  dressing-gown,  with  the  other  he 
handed  the  young  lady  carefully  down  the 
plank.  That  young  lady  was  afterward  my 
grandmother  Titbottom. 

"  For,  over  the  gleaming  sea  which  he  had 
watched  so  long,  and  which  seemed  thus  to 
reward  his  patient  gaze,  came  his  bride  that 
sunny  morning. 

"  '  Of  course,  we  are  happy/  he  used  to  say 
to  her,  after  they  were  married ;  '  for  you 
are  the  gift  of  the  sun  I  have  loved  so  long 
and  so  well.'  And  my  grandfather  Titbottom 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.  107- 

would  lay  his  hand  so  tenderly  upon  the 
golden  hair  of  his  young  bride,  that  you  could 
fancy  him  a  devout  Parsee,  caressing  sun- 
beams. 

"  There  were  endless  festivities  upon  occa- 
sion of  the  marriage ;  and  my  grandfather  did 
not  go  to  one  of  them  in  his  dressing-gown. 
The  gentle  sweetness  of  his  wife  melted  every- 
heart  into  love  and  sympathy.  He  was  much- 
older  than  she,  without  doubt.  But  age,  as; 
he  used  to  say  with  a  smile  of  immortal  youthr 
is  a  matter  of  feeling,  not  of  years. 

"  And  if,  sometimes,  as  she  sat  by  his  side 
on  the  piazza,  her  fancy  looked  through  her 
eyes  upon  that  summer  sea,  and  saw  a  younger- 
lover,  perhaps  some  one  of  those  graceful  and 
glowing  heroes  who  occupy  the  foreground  of 
all  young  maidens'  visions  by  the  sea,  yet  she 
could  not  find  one  more  generous  and  gra- 
cious, nor  fancy  one  more  worthy  and  loving 
than  my  grandfather  Titbottom. 

"  And  if,  in  the  moonlit  midnight,  while  he- 
lay  calmly  sleeping  she  leaned  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  sank  into  vague  reveries  of  sweet 
possibility,  and  watched  the  gleaming  path  of 
the  moonlight  upon  the  water,  until  the  dawn 
glided  over  it — it  was  only  that  mood  of 
nameless  regret  and  longing,  which  underlies 


108  PRUE    AND    I. 

all  human  happiness;  or  it  was  the  vision  of 
that  life  of  cities  and  the  world,  which  she  had 
never  seen,  but  of  which  she  had  often  read, 
and  which  looked  very  iair  and  alluring 
.across  the  sea,  to  a  girlish  imagination,  which 
knew  that  it  should  never  see  that  reality. 

"  These  West  Indian  years  were  the  great 
•days  of  the  family,"  said  Titbottom,  with  an 
air  of  majestic  and  regal  regret,  pausing,  and 
musing,  in  our  little  parlor,  like  a  late  Stuart 
in  exile  remembering  England. 

Prue  raised  her  eyes  from  her  work,  and 
looked  at  him  with  subdued  admiration;  for 
I  have  observed  that,  like  the  rest  of  her  sex, 
she  has  a  singular  sympathy  with  the  repre- 
sentative of  a  reduced  family. 

Perhaps  it  is  their  finer  perception,  which 
leads  these  tender-hearted  women  to  recognize 
the  divine  right  of  social  superiority  so  much 
more  readily  than  we;  and  yet,  much  as  Tit- 
bottom  was  enhanced  in  my  wife's  admiration 
~by  the  discovery  that  his  dusky  sadness  of 
nature  and  expression  was,  as  it  were,  the 
-expiring  gleam  and  late  twilight  of  ancestral 
splendors,  I  doubt  if  Mr.  Bourne  would  have 
preferred  him  for  bookkeeper  a  moment 
sooner  upon  that  account.  In  truth,  I  have 
observed,  downtown,  that  the  fact  of  your  an- 


TITBOTTOM'S   SPECTACLES. 

cestors  doing  nothing  is  not  considered  good 
proof  that  you  can  do  anything. 

But  Prue  and  her  sex  regard  sentiment 
more  than  action,  and  I  understand  easily 
enough  why  she  is  never  tired  of  hearing- 
me  read  of  Prince  Charlie.  If  Titbottom 
had  been  only  a  little  younger,  a  little  hand- 
somer, a  little  more  gallantly  dressed — in  fact,, 
a  little  more  of  a  Prince  Charlie — I  am  sure 
her  eyes  would  not  have  fallen  again  upon  her 
work  so  tranquilly,  as  he  resumed  his  story. 

"  I  can  remember  my  grandfather  Titbot- 
torn,  although  I  was  a  very  young  child,  and 
he  was  a  very  old  man.  My  young  mother 
and  grandmother  are  very  distinct  figures  in. 
my  memory,  ministering  to  the  old  gentleman 
wrapped  in  his  dressing-gown,  and  seated  upon, 
the  piazza..  I  remember  his  white  hair,  and 
his  calm  smile,  and  how,  not  long  before  he- 
died,  he  called  me  to  him,  and  laying  his  hand 
upon  my  head,  said  to  me : 

" '  My  child,  the  world  is  not  this  great 
sunny  piazza.,  nor  life  the  fairy  stories  which, 
the  women  tell  you  here,  as  you  sit  in  their 
laps.  I  shall  soon  be  gone,  but  I  want  to  leave 
with  you  some  memento  of  love  for  you,  and  I 
know  of  nothing  more  valuable  than  these 
spectacles,  which  your  grandmother  brought 


JIO  PRUE    AND   I. 

irom  her  native  island,  when  she  arrived  here 
one  fine  summer  morning,  long  ago.  I  can- 
not tell  whether,  when  you  grow  older,  you 
will  regard  them  as  a  gift  of  the  greatest 
value,  or  as  something  that  you  had  been  hap- 
pier never  to  have  possessed.' 

"  '  But,  grandpapa,  I  am  not  short-sighted.' 

"  '  My  son,  are  you  not  human  ? '  said  the 
X)ld  gentleman;  and  how  I  shall  ever  forget 
the  thoughtful  sadness  with  which,  at  the 
same  time,  he  handed  me  the  spectacles. 

"  Instinctively  I  put  them  on,  and  looked 
at  my  grandfather.  But  I  saw  no  grand- 
father, no  piazza,  no  flowered  dressing-gown ; 
I  saw  only  a  luxuriant  palm  tree,  waving 
.broadly  over  a  tranquil  landscape ;  pleasant 
.homes  clustered  around  it ;  gardens  teeming 
with  fruit  and  flowers ;  flocks  quietly  feeding ; 
birds  wheeling  and  chirping.  I  heard  chil- 
dren's voices,  and  the  low  lullaby  of  happy 
mothers.  The  sound  of  cheerful  singing 
came  wafted  from  distant  fields  upon  the  light 
breeze.  Golden  harvests  glistened  out  of 
sight,  and  I  caught  their  rustling  whispers  of 
prosperity.  A  warm,  mellow  atmosphere 
bathed  the  whole. 

"  I  have  seen  copies  of  the  landscapes  of  the 
Italian  painter  Claude,  which  seemed  to  me 


TITBOTTOM  S  SPECTACLES.        Ill 

faint  reminiscences  of  that  calm  and  happy 
vision.  But  all  this  peace  and  prosperity 
seemed  to  flow  from  the  spreading  palm  as 
from  a  fountain. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  long  I  looked,  but  I 
had  apparently,  no  power,  as  I  had  no  will,  to* 
remove  the  spectacles.  What  a  wonderful 
island  must  Nevis  be,  thought  I,  if  people 
carry  such  pictures  in  their  pockets,  only  by 
buying  a  pair  of  spectacles !  What  wonder 
that  my  dear  grandmother  Titbottom  has 
lived  such  a  placid  life,  and  has  blessed  us  all 
with  her  sunny  temper,  when  she  has  lived 
surrounded  by  such  images  of  peace ! 

"  My  grandfather  died.  But  still,  in  the 
warm  morning  sunshine  upon  the  piazza,  I 
felt  his  placid  presence,  and  as  I  crawled  into 
his  great  chair,  and  drifted  on  in  reverie 
through  the  still  tropical  day,  it  was  as  if  his 
soft  dreamy  eye  had  passed  into  my  soul.  My 
grandmother  cherished  his  memory  with 
tender  regret.  A  violent  passion  of  grief  for 
his  loss  was  no  more  possible  than  for  the  pen- 
sive decay  of  the  year. 

"  We  have  no  portrait  of  him,  but  I  see  al- 
ways, when  I  remember  him,  that  peaceful 
and  luxuriant  palm.  And  I  think  that  to  have 
known  one  good  old  man — one  man  who, 


112  PRUE    AND    I. 

through  the  chances  and  rubs  of  a  long  life, 
has  carried  his  heart  in  his  hand,  like  a  palm 
branch,  waving  all  discords  into  peace,  helps 
our  faith  in  God,  in  ourselves,  and  in  each 
other,  more  than  many  sermons.  I  hardly 
know  whether  to  be  grateful  to  my  grand- 
father for  the  spectacles;  and  yet  when  I  re- 
member that  it  is  to  them  that  I  owe  the  pleas- 
ant image  of  him  which  I  cherish,  I  seem  to 
myself  sadly  ungrateful. 

"  Madam,"  said  Titbottom  to  Prue,  sol- 
emnly, "  my  memory  is  a  long  and  gloomy 
gallery,  and  only  remotely,  at  its  farther  end, 
do  I  see  the  glimmer  of  soft  sunshine,  and 
only  there  are  the  pleasant  pictures  hung. 
They  seem  to  me  very  happy  along  whose  gal- 
lery the  sunlight  streams  to  their  very  feet, 
striking  all  the  pictured  walls  into  unfading 
splendor." 

Prue  had  laid  her  work  in  her  lap,  and  as 
Titbottom  paused  a  moment,  and  I  turned 
toward  her,  I  found  her  mild  eyes  fastened 
upon  my  face,  and  glistening  with  many  tears. 
I  knew  that  the  tears  meant  that  she  felt  her- 
self to  be  one  of  those  who  seemed  to  Titbot- 
tom very  happy. 

"  Misfortunes  of  many  kinds  came  heavily 
upon  the  family  after  the  head  was  gone.  The 


TITBOTTOM  S   SPECTACLES.  113 

great  house  was  relinquished.  My  parents 
were  both  dead,  my  grandmother  had  entire 
charge  of  me.  But  from  the  moment  that  I 
received  the  gift  of  the  spectacles,  I  could  not 
resist  their  fascination,  and  I  withdrew  into 
myself,  and  became  a  solitary  boy.  There 
were  not  many  companions  for  me  of  my 
own  age,  and  they  gradually  left  me,  or,  at 
least,  had  not  a  hearty  sympathy  with  me ;  for, 
if  they  teased  me,  I  pulled  out  my  spectacles 
and  surveyed  them  so  seriously  that  they  ac- 
quired a  kind  of  awe  of  me,  and  evidently  re- 
garded my  grandfather's  gift  as  a  concealed 
magical  weapon  which  might  be  dangerously 
drawn  upon  them  at  any  moment.  When- 
ever, in  our  games,  there  were  quarrels  and 
high  words,  and  I  began  to  feel  about  my 
dress  and  to  wear  a  grave  look,  they  all  took 
the  alarm,  and  shouted,  '  Look  out  for  Titbot- 
tom's  spectacles/  and  scattered  like  a  flock  of 
scared  sheep. 

"  Nor  could  I  wonder  at  it.  For,  at  first, 
before  they  took  the  alarm,  I  saw  strange 
sights  when  I  looked  at  them  through  the 
glasses. 

"  If  two  were  quarreling  about  a  marble  or 
a  ball,  I  had  only  to  go  behind  a  tree  where  I 
was  concealed  and  look  at  them  leisurely. 


114  PRUE    AND    I. 

Then  the  scene  changed,  and  it  was  no  longer  a 
green  meadow  with  boys  playing,  but  a  spot 
which  I  did  not  recognize,  and  forms  that 
made  me  shudder,  or  smile.  It  was  not  a  big 
boy  bullying  a  little  one,  but  a  young  wolf 
with  glistening  teeth  and  a  lamb  cowering  be- 
fore him ;  or,  it  was  a  dog  faithful  and  famish- 
ing— or  a  star  going  slowly  into  eclipse — or  a: 
rainbow  fading — or  a  flower  blooming — or  a 
sun  rising — or  a  waning  moon. 

"  The  revelations  of  the  spectacles  deter- 
mined my  feeling  for  the  boys,  and  for  all 
whom  I  saw  through  them.  No  shyness,  nor 
awkwardness,  nor  silence,  could  separate  me 
from  those  who  looked  lovely  as  lilies  to  my 
illuminated  eyes.  But  the  vision  made  me 
afraid.  If  I  felt  myself  warmly  drawn  to  any- 
one, I  struggled  with  the  fierce  desire  of  see- 
ing him  through  the  spectacles,  for  I  feared 
to  find  him  something  else  than  I  fancied.  I 
longed  to  enjoy  the  luxury  of  ignorant  feeling, 
to  love  without  knowing,  to  float  like  a  leaf 
upon  the  eddies  of  life,  drifted  now  to  a  sunny 
point,  now  to  a  solemn  shade — now  over  glit- 
tering ripples,  now  over  gleaming  calms — and 
not  to  determined  ports,  a  trim  vessel  with  an 
inexorable  rudder. 

"  But     sometimes,     mastered     after     long 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.  115 

struggles,  as  if  the  unavoidable  condition  of 
owning  the  spectacles  were  using  them,  I 
seized  them  and  sauntered  into  the  little  town. 
Putting  them  to  my  eyes  I  peered  into  the 
houses  and  .at  the  people  who  passed  me. 
Here  sat  a  family  at  breakfast,  and  I  stood  at 
the  window  looking  in.  O  motley  meal !  fan- 
tastic vision !  The  good  mother  saw  her  lord 
sitting  opposite,  a  grave,  respectable  being, 
eating  muffins.  But  I  saw  only  a  bank-bill, 
more  or  less  crumbled  and  tattered,  marked 
with  a  larger  or  lesser  figure.  If  a  sharp 
wind  blew  suddenly,  I  saw  it  tremble  and 
flutter;  it  was  thin,  flat,  impalpable.  I  re- 
moved my  glasses,  and  looked  with  my  eyes 
at  the  wife.  I  could  have  smiled  to  see  the 
humid  tenderness  writh  which  she  regarded  her 
strange  vis-a-vis.  Is  life  only  a  game  of 
blindman's-buff?  of  droll  cross-purposes? 

"  Or  I  put  them  on  again,  and  then  looked 
at  the  wives.  How  many  stout  trees  I  saw — 
how  many  tender  flowers — how  many  placid 
pools ;  yes,  and  how  many  little  streams  wind- 
ing out  of  sight,  shrinking  before  the  large, 
hard,  round  eyes  opposite,  and  slipping  off 
into  solitude  and  shade,  with  a  low,  inner  song 
for  their  own  solace. 

"  In  many  houses  I  thought  to  see  angels, 


Il6  PRUE    AND    I. 

nymphs,  or,  at  least,  women,  and  could  only 
find  broomsticks,  mops,  or  kettles,  hurrying 
about,  rattling  and  tinkling,  in  a  state  of  shrill 
activity.  I  made  calls  upon  elegant  ladies,  and 
after  I  had  enjoyed  the  gloss  of  silk,  and  the 
delicacy  of  lace,  and  the  glitter  of  jewels,  I 
slipped  on  my  spectacles,  and  saw  a  peacock's 
feather,  flounced,  and  furbelowed,  and  flutter- 
ing ;  or  an  iron  rod,  thin,  sharp,  and  hard ;  nor 
could  I  possibly  mistake  the  movement  of  the 
drapery  for  any  flexibility  of  the  thing 
draped. 

"  Or,  mysteriously  chilled,  I  saw  a  statue  of 
perfect  form,  or  flowing  movement,  it  might 
be  alabaster,  or  bronze,  or  marble — but  sadly 
often  it  was  ice;  and  I  knew  that  after  it  had 
shone  a  little,  and  frozen  a  few  eyes  with  its 
despairing  perfection,  it  could  not  be  put  away 
in  the  niches  of  palaces  for  ornament  and 
proud  family  tradition,  like  the  alabaster,  or 
bronze,  or  marble  statues,  but  would  melt  and 
shrink,  and  fall  coldly  away  in  colorless  and 
useless  water,  be  absorbed  in  the  earth  and  ut- 
terly forgotten. 

"  But  the  true  sadness  was  rather  in  seeing 
those  who,  not  having  the  spectacles,  thought 
that  the  iron  rod  was  flexible,  and  the  ice  statue 
warm.  I  saw  many  a  gallant  heart,  which 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.  117 

seemed  to  me  brave  and  loyal  as  the  cru- 
saders, pursuing,  through  days  and  nights, 
and  a  long  life  of  devotion,  the  hope  of  light- 
ing at  least  a  smile  in  the  cold  eyes,  if  not  a  fire 
in  the  icy  heart.  I  watched  the  earnest,  en- 
thusiastic sacrifice.  I  saw  the  pure  resolve,  the 
generous  faith,  the  fine  scorn  of  doubt,  the  im- 
patience of  suspicion.  I  watched  the  race,  the 
ardor,  the  glory  of  devotion.  Through  those 
strange  spectacles  how  often  I  saw  the  noblest 
heart  renouncing  all  other  hope,  all  other  am- 
bition, all  other  life,  than  the  possible  love  of 
some  one  of  those  statues. 

"  Ah,  me !  it  was  terrible,  but  they  had  not 
the  love  to  give.  The  face  was  so  polished 
and  smooth,  because  there  was  no  sorrow  in 
the  heart — and  drearily,  often,  no  heart  to  be 
touched.  I  could  not  wonder  that  the  noble 
heart  of  devotion  was  broken,  for  it  had 
dashed  itself  against  a  stone.  I  wept,  until  my 
spectacles  were  dimmed,  for  those  hopeless 
lovers ;  but  there  was  a  pang  beyond  tears  for 
those  icy  statues. 

*  "  Still  a  boy,  I  was  thus  too  much  a  man  in 
knowledge — I  did  not  comprehend  the  sights 
I  was  compelled  to  see.  I  used  to  tear  my 
glasses  away  from  my  eyes,  and  frightened  at 
myself,  run  to  escape  my  own  consciousness. 


IlS  PRUE    AND    I. 

Reaching  the  small  house  where  we  then  lived, 
I  plunged  into  my  grandmother's  room,  and 
throwing  myself  upon  the  floor,  buried  my 
face  in  her  lap  and  sobbed  myself  to  sleep  with 
premature  grief. 

"  But  when  I  awakened,  and  felt  her  cool 
hand  upon  my  hot  forehead,  and  heard  the  low 
sweet  song,  or  the  gentle  story,  or  the  tenderly 
told  parable  from  the  Bible,  with  which  she 
tried  to  soothe  me,  I  could  not  resist  the  mys- 
tic fascination  that  lured  me,  as  I  lay  in  her 
lap,  to  steal  a  glance  at  her  through  the  spec- 
tacles. 

"  Pictures  of  the  Madonna  have  not  her  rare 
and  pensive  beauty.  Upon  the  tranquil  little 
islands  her  life  had  been  eventless,  and  all  the 
fine  possibilities  of  her  nature  were  like 
flowers  that  never  bloomed.  Placid  were  all 
her  years ;  yet  I  have  read  of  no  heroine,  of 
no  woman  great  in  sudden  crises,  that  it  did 
not  seem  to  me  she  might  have  been.  The 
wife  and  widow  of  a  man  who  loved  his  home 
better  than  the  homes  of  others,  I  have  yet 
heard  of  no  queen,  no  belle,  no  imperial 
beauty,  whom  in  grace,  and  brilliancy,  and 
persuasive  courtesy  she  might  not  have  sur- 
passed. 

"  Madam,"     said    Titbottom   to   my   wife, 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES. 

whose  heart  hung  upon  his  story ;  "  your  hus- 
band's young  friend,  Aurelia,  wears  sometimes, 
a  camellia  in  her  hair,  and  no  diamond  in  the 
ballroom  seems  so  costly  as  that  perfect  flower,, 
which  women  envy,  and  for  whose  least  and 
withered  petal  men  sigh;  yet,  in  the  tropical 
solitudes  of  Brazil,  how  many  a  camellia  bud 
drops  from  the  bush  that  no  eye  has  ever 
seen,  which,  had  it  flowered  and  been  no- 
ticed, would  have  gilded  all  hearts  with  its 
memory. 

"  When  I  stole  these  furtive  glances  at  my 
grandmother,  half-fearing  that  they  were 
wrong,  I  saw  only  a  calm  lake,  whose  shores 
were  low,  and  over  which  the  sun  hung  un- 
broken, so  that  the  least  star  was  clearly  re- 
flected. It  had  an  atmosphere  of  solemn  twi- 
light tranquillity,  and  so  completely  did  its 
unruffled  surface  blend  with  the  cloudless, 
star-studded  sky,  that,  when  I  looked  through 
my  spectacles  at  my  grandmother,  the  vision 
seemed  to  me  all  heaven  and  stars. 

"Yet,  as  I  gazed  and  gazed,  I  felt  what 
stately  cities  might  well  have  been  built  upon 
those  shores,  and  have  flashed  prosperity  over 
the  calm,  like  coruscations  of  pearls.  I 
dreamed  of  gorgeous  fleets,  silken-sailed,  an'd 
blown  by  perfumed  winds,  drifting  over  those 


120  PRUE    AND    I. 

depthless  waters  and  through  those  spacious 
skies.  I  gazed  upon  the  twilight,  the  inscru- 
table silence,  like  a  God-fearing  discoverer 
upon  a  new  and  vast  sea  bursting  upon  him 
through  forest  glooms,  and  in  the  fervor  of 
whose  impassioned  gaze,  a  millennial  and  po- 
etic world  arises,  and  man  need  no  longer  die 
to  be  happy. 

"  My  companions  naturally  deserted  me,  for 
I  had  grown  wearily  grave  and  abstracted; 
and,  unable  to  resist  the  allurements  of  my 
spectacles,  I  was  constantly  lost  in  the  world, 
of  which  those  companions  were  part,  yet  of 
which  they  knew  nothing. 

"  I  grew  cold  and  hard,  almost  morose ;  peo- 
ple seemed  to  me  so  blind  and  unreasonable. 
They  did  the  wrong  thing.  They  called 
green,  yellow ;  and  black,  white.  Young  men 
said  of  a  girl,  *  What  a  lovely,  simple  creat- 
ure ! '  I  looked,  and  there  was  only  a  glisten- 
ing wisp  of  straw,  dry  and  hollow.  Or  they 
said,  '  What  a  cold,  proud  beauty ! '  I  looked, 
and  lo!  a  Madonna,  whose  heart  held  the 
world.  Or  they  said,  'What  a  wild,  giddy 
girl ! '  and  I  saw  a  glancing,  dancing  mountain 
stream,  pure  as  the  virgin  snows  whence  it 
flowed,  singing  through  sun  and  shade,  over 
pearls  and  gold  dust,  slipping  along  un- 


TITBOTTOM'S    SPECTACLES.  121 

stained  by  weed  or  rain,  or  heavy  foot  of  cat- 
tle, touching  the  flowers  with  a  dewy  kiss — a 
beam  of  grace,  a  happy  song,  a  line  of  light, 
in  the  dim  and  troubled  landscape. 

"  My  grandmother  sent  me  to  school,  but  I 
looked  at  the  master,  and  saw  that  he  was  a 
smooth  round  ferrule,  or  an  improper  noun, 
or  a  vulgar  fraction,  and  refused  to  obey  him. 
Or  he  was  a  piece  of  string,  a  rag,  a  willow 
wand,  and  I  had  a  contemptuous  pity.  But 
one  was  a  well  of  cool,  deep  water,  and  look- 
ing suddenly  in,  one  day,  I  saw  the  stars. 

"  That  one  gave  me  all  my  schooling. 
With  him  I  used  to  walk  by  the  sea,  and,  as 
we  strolled  and  the  waves  plunged  in  long 
legions  before  us,  I  looked  at  him  through  the 
spectacles,  and  as  his  eyes  dilated  with  the 
boundless  view,  and  his  chest  heaved  with  an 
impossible  desire,  I  saw  Xerxes  and  his  army, 
tossed  and  glittering,  rank  upon  rank,  multi- 
tude upon  multitude,  out  of  sight,  but  ever 
regularly  advancing,  and  with  confused  roar 
of  ceaseless  music,  prostrating  themselves  in 
abject  homage.  Or,  as  with  arms  out- 
stretched and  hair  streaming  on  the  wind,  he 
chanted  full  lines  of  the  resounding  Iliad,  I 
saw  Homer  pacing  the  yEgean  sands  of  the 
Greek  sunsets  of  forgotten  times. 


Ifc/  PRUE    AND    I. 

"  My  grandmother  died,  and  I  was  thrown 
into  the  world  without  resources,  and  writh  no 
capital  but  my  spectacles.  I  tried  to  find  em- 
ployment, but  everybody  was  shy  of  me. 
There  was  a  vague  suspicion  that  I  was  either 
a  little  crazed,  or  a  good  deal  in  league  with  the 
prince  of  darkness.  My  companions,  who 
would  persist  in  calling  a  piece  of  painted 
muslin,  a  fair  and  fragrant  flower,  had  no 
difficulty;  success  waited  for  them  around 
every  corner,  and  arrived  in  every  ship. 

"  I  tried  to  teach,  for  I  loved  children. 
But  if  anything  excited  a  suspicion  of  my  pu- 
pils, and  putting  on  my  spectacles,  I  saw  that 
I  was  fondling  a  snake,  or  smelling  of  a  bud 
with  a  worm  in  it,  I  sprang  up  in  horror  and 
ran  away;  or,  if  it  seemed  to  me  through  the 
glasses,  that  a  cherub  smiled  upon  me,  or  a 
rose  was  blooming  in  my  buttonhole,  then  I 
felt  myself  imperfect  and  impure,  not  fit  to  be 
leading  and  training  what  was  so  essentially 
superior  to  myself,  and  I  kissed  the  children 
and  left  them  weeping  and  wondering. 

"  In  despair  I  went  to  a  great  merchant 
on  the  island,  and  asked  him  to  employ  me. 

"  '  My  dear  young  friend/  said  he,  '  I  under- 
stand that  you  have  some  singular  secret,  some 
charm,  or  spell,  or  amulet,  or  something,  I 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.  123 

don't  know  what,  of  which  people  are  afraid. 
Now  you  know,  my  dear/  said  the  merchant, 
swelling  up,  and  apparently  prouder  of  his 
great  stomach  than  of  his  large  fortune,  '  I  am 
not  of  that  kind.  I  am  not  easily  frightened. 
You  may  spare  yourself  the  pain  of  trying  to 
impose  upon  me.  People  who  propose  to 
come  to  time  before  I  arrive,  are  accustomed 
to  arise  very  early  in  the  morning/  said  he, 
thrusting  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his 
waistcoat,  and  spreading  the  ringers  like  two 
fans,  upon  his  bosom.  '  I  think  I  have  heard 
something  of  your  secret.  You  have  a  pair  of 
spectacles,  I  believe,  that  you  value  very  much, 
because  your  grandmother  brought  them  as  a 
marriage  portion  to  your  grandfather.  Now, 
if  you  think  fit  to  sell  me  those  spectacles,  I 
will  pay  you  the  largest  market  price  for  them. 
What  do  you  say  ? ' 

"  I  told  him  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of 
selling  my  spectacles. 

"  '  My  young  friend  means  to  eat  them,  I 
suppose/  said  he,  with  a  contemptuous  smile. 

"  I  made  no  reply,  but  was  turning  to  leave 
the  office,  when  the  merchant  called  after  me : 

" '  My  young  friend,  poor  people  should 
never  suffer  themselves  to  get  into  pets.  An- 
ger is  an  expensive  luxury,  in  which  only  men 


124  PRUE    AND   I. 

of  a  certain  income  can  indulge.  A  pair  of 
spectacles  and  a  hot  temper  are  not  the  most 
promising  capital  for  success  in  life,  Master 
Titbottom.' 

"  I  said  nothing,  but  put  my  hand  upon  the 
door  to  go  out,  when  the  merchant  said,  more 
respectfully : 

"  '  Well,  you  foolish  boy,  if  you  will  not  sell 
your  spectacles,  perhaps  you  will  agree  to  sell 
the  use  of  them  to  me.  That  is,  you  shall  only 
put  them  on  when  I  direct  you,  and  for  my 
purposes.  Hallo !  you  little  fool ! '  cried  he, 
impatiently,  as  he  saw  that  I  intended  to  make 
no  reply. 

"  But  I  had  pulled  out  my  spectacles  and 
put  them  on  for  my  own  purposes,  and  against 
his  wish  and  desire.  I  looked  at  him,  and  saw 
a  huge,  bald-headed  wild  boar,  with  gross 
chaps  and  a  learing  eye — only  the  more  ridic- 
ulous for  the  high-arched,  gold-bowed  spec- 
tacles that  straddled  his  nose.  One  of  his 
forehoofs  was  thrust  into  the  safe,  where  his 
bills  receivable  were  hived,  and  the  other  into 
his  pocket,  among  the  loose  change  and  bills 
there.  His  ears  were  pricked  forward  with  a 
brisk,  sensitive  smartness.  In  a  world  where 
prize  pork  was  the  best  excellence,  he  would 
have  carried  off  all  the  premiums. 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.  12^ 

"  I  stepped  into  the  next  office  in  the  street, 
and  a  mild- faced  man,  also  a  large  and  opulent 
merchant,  asked  me  my  business  in  such  a  tone, 
that  I  instantly  looked  through  my  spectacles, 
and  saw  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey. 
There  I  pitched  my  tent,  and  stayed  till  the 
good  man  died,  and  his  business  was  discon- 
tinued. 

"  But  while  there,"  said  Titbottom,  and  his 
voice  trembled  away-  into  a  sigh,  "  I  first  saw 
Preciosa.  Despite  the  spectacles,  I  saw  Pre- 
ciosa.  For  days,  for  weeks,  for  months,  I  did 
not  take  my  spectacles  with  me.  I  ran  away 
from  them,  I  threw  them  up  on  high  shelves, 
I  tried  to  make  up  my  mind  to  throw  them 
into  the  sea,  or  down  the  well.  I  could  not, 
I  would  not,  I  dared  not,  look  at  Preciosa 
through  the  spectacles.  It  was  not  possible 
for  me  deliberately  to  destroy  them;  but  I 
awoke  in  the  night,  and  could  almost  have 
cursed  my  dear  old  grandfather  for  his 
gift. 

"  I  sometimes  escaped  from  the  office,  and 
sat  for  whole  days  with  Preciosa.  I  told  her 
the  strange  things  I  had  seen  with  my  mystic 
glasses.  The  hours  were  not  enough  for  the 
wild  romances  which  I  raved  in  her  ear.  She 
listened,  astonished  and  appalled.  Her  blue 


126  PRUE   AND  I. 

eyes  turned  upon  me  with  sweet  deprecation. 
She  clung  to  me,  and  then  withdrew,  and  fled 
fearfully  from  the  room. 

"  But  she  could  not  stay  away.  She  could 
not  resist  my  voice,  in  whose  tones  burned  all 
the  love  that  filled  my  heart  and  brain.  The 
very  effort  to  resist  the  desire  of  seeing  her  as 
I  saw  everybody  else,  gave  a  frenzy  and  an 
unnatural  tension  to  my  feeling  and  my  man- 
ner. I  sat  by  her  side,  looking  into  her  eyes, 
smoothing  her  hair,  folding  her  to  my  heart, 
which  was  sunken  deep  and  deep — why  not 
forever?  in  that  dream  of  peace.  I  ran  from 
her  presence,  and  shouted,  and  leaped  with 
joy,  and  sat  the  whole  night  through,  thrilled 
into  happiness  by  the  thought  of  her  love  and 
loveliness,  like  a  windharp,  tightly  strung, 
and  answering  the  airiest  sigh  of  the  breeze 
with  music. 

"  Then  came  calmer  days — the  conviction  of 
deep  love  settled  upon  our  lives — as  after  the 
hurrying,  heaving  days  of  spring,  comes  the 
bland  and  benignant  summer. 

"  '  It  is  no  dream  then,  after  all,  and  we  are 
happy/  I  said  to  her,  one  day ;  and  there  came 
no  answer,  for  happiness  is  speechless. 

" '  We  are  happy  then/  I  said  to  myself, 
*  there  is  no  excitement  now.  How  glad  I  am 


TITBOTTOM  S  SPECTACLES,        127 

that  I  can  now  look  at  her  through  my  spec- 
tacles/ 

"  I  feared  lest  some  instinct  should  warn  me 
to  beware.  I  escaped  from  her  arms,  and  ran 
home  and  seized  the  glasses,  and  bounded  back 
again  to  Preciosa.  As  I  entered  the  room  I 
was  heated,  my  head  was  swimming  with  con- 
fused apprehensions,  my  eyes  must  have 
glared.  Preciosa  was  frightened,  and  rising 
from  her  seat,  stood  with  an  inquiring  glance 
<of  surprise  in  her  eyes. 

"  But  I  was  bent  with  frenzy  upon  my  pur- 
pose. I  was  merely  aware  that  she  was  in 
the  room.  I  saw  nothing  else.  I  heard  noth- 
ing. I  cared  for  nothing,  but  to  see  her 
through  that  magic  glass,  and  feel  at  once  all 
the  fullness  of  blissful  perfection  which  that 
would  reveal.  Preciosa  stood  before  the  mir- 
ror, but  alarmed  at  my  wild  and  eager  move- 
ments, unable  to  distinguish  what  I  had  in  my 
hands,  and  seeing  me  raise  them  suddenly  to 
my  face,  she  shrieked  with  terror,  and  fell 
fainting  upon  the  floor,  at  the  very  moment 
that  I  placed  the  glass  before  my  eyes,  and 
"beheld — myself,  reflected  in  the  mirror,  before 
"which  she  had  been  standing. 

"  Dear  madam,"  cried  Titbottom,  to  my 
ivife,  springing  up  and  falling  back  again  in 


128  PRUE    AND    I. 

his  chair,  pale  and  trembling,  while  Prue  ran 
to  him  and  took  his  hand,,  and  I  poured  out  a 
glass  of  water — "  I  saw  myself." 

There  was  silence  for  many  minutes.  Prue 
laid  her  hand  gently  upon  the  head  of  our 
guest,  whose  eyes  were  closed,  and  who 
breathed  softly  like  an  infant  in  sleeping. 
Perhaps,  in  all  the  long  years  of  anguish  since 
that  hour,  no  tender  hand  had  touched  his 
brow,  nor  wiped  away  the  damps  of  a  bitter 
sorrow.  Perhaps  the  tender,  maternal  ringers 
of  my  wife  soothed  his  weary  head  with  the 
conviction  that  he  felt  the  hand  of  his  mother 
playing  with  the  long  hair  of  her  boy  in  the 
soft  West  India  morning.  Perhaps  it  was 
only  the  natural  relief  of  expressing  a  pent- 
up  sorrow. 

When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  with  the  old 
subdued  tone,  and  the  air  of  quaint  solem- 
nity. 

"  These  things  were  matters  of  long,  long 
ago,  and  I  came  to  this  country  soon  after.  I 
brought  with  me  premature  age,  a  past  of 
melancholy  memories,  and  the  magic  spec- 
tacles. I  had  become  their  slave.  I  had 
nothing  more  to  fear.  Having  seen  myself, 
I  was  compelled  to  see  others,  properly  to 
understand  my  relations  to  them.  The  lights 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.  129 

that  cheer  the  future  of  other  men  had  gone 
out  for  me;  my  eyes  were  those  of  an  exile 
turned  backward  upon  the  receding  shore,  and 
not  forward  with  hope  upon  the  ocean. 

"  I  mingled  with  men,  but  with  little  pleas- 
ure. There  are  but  many  varieties  of  a  few 
types.  I  did  not  find  those  I  came  to  clearer- 
sighted  than  those  I  had  left  behind.  I  heard 
men  called  shrewd  and  wise,  and  report  said 
they  were  highly  intelligent  and  successful. 
My  finest  sense  detected  no  aroma  of  purity 
and  principle;  but  I  saw  only  a  fungus  that 
had  fattened  and  spread  in  a  night.  They 
went  to  the  theaters  to  see  actors  upon  the 
stage.  I  went  to  see  actors  in  the  boxes,  so 
consummately  cunning,  that  others  did  not 
know  they  were  acting,  and  they  did  not  sus- 
pect it  themselves. 

"  Perhaps  you  wonder  it  did  not  make  me 
misanthropical.  My  dear  friends,  do  not  for- 
get that  I  had  seen  myself.  That  made  me 
compassionate,  not  cynical. 

"  Of  course,  I  could  not  value  highly  the 
ordinary  standards  of  success  and  excellence. 
When  I  went  to  church  and  saw  a  thin,  blue, 
artificial  flower,  or  a  great  sleepy  cushion  ex- 
pounding the  beauty  of  holiness  to  pews  full 
of  eagles,  half  eagles,  and  threepences,  how- 


130  PRUE    AND    I. 

ever  adroitly  concealed  they  might  be  in  broad- 
cloth and  boots ;  or  saw  an  onion  in  an  Easter 
bonnet  weeping  over  the  sins  of  Magdalen,  I 
did  not  feel  as  they  felt  who  saw  in  all  this 
not  only  propriety  but  piety. 

"  Or  when  at  public  meetings  an  eel  stood 
up  on  end,  and  wriggled  and  squirmed  lithely 
in  every  direction,  and  declared  that,  for  his 
part,  he  went  in  for  rainbows  and  hot  water — 
how  could  I  help  seeing  that  he  was  still  black 
and  loved  a  slimy  pool  ? 

"  I  could  not  grow  misanthropical  when  I 
saw  in  the  eyes  of  so  many  who  were  called 
old,  the  gushing  fountains  of  eternal  youth, 
and  the  light  of  an  immortal  dawn,  or  when 
I  saw  those  who  were  esteemed  unsuccessful 
and  aimless,  ruling  a  fair  realm  of  peace  and 
plenty,  either  in  their  own  hearts,  or  in  an- 
other's— a  realm  and  princely  possession  for 
which  they  had  well  renounced  a  hopeless 
search  and  a  belated  triumph. 

"  I  knew  one  man  who  had  been  for  years 
a  byword  for  having  sought  the  philosopher's 
stone.  But  I  looked  at  him  through  the  spec- 
tacles and  saw  a  satisfaction  in  concentrated 
energies,  and  a  tenacity  arising  from  devotion 
to  a  noble  dream  which  was  not  apparent  in 
the  youths  who  pitied  him  in  the  aimless 


TITBOTTOM  S   SPECTACLES.  131 

•effeminacy  of  clubs,  nor  in  the  clever  gentle- 
men who  cracked  their  thin  jokes  upon  him 
over  a  gossiping  dinner. 

"  And  there  was  your  neighbor  over  the 
way,  who  passes  for  a  woman  who  has  failed 
in  her  career,  because  she  is  an  old  maid. 
People  wag  solemn  heads  of  pity,  and  say  that 
she  made  so  great  a  mistake  in  not  marrying 
the  brilliant  and  famous  man  who  was  for 
long  years  her  suitor.  It  is  clear  that  no 
orange  flower  will  ever  bloom  for  her.  The 
young  people  make  their  tender  romances 
about  her  as  they  watch  her,  and  think  of  her 
solitary  hours  of  bitter  regret  and  wasting 
longing,  never  to  be  satisfied. 

"  When  I  first  came  to  town  I  shared  their 
sympathy,  and  pleased  my  imagination  with 
fancying  her  hard  struggle  with  the  convic- 
tion that  she  had  lost  all  that  made  life  beauti- 
ful. I  supposed  that  if  I  had  looked  at  her 
through  my  spectacles,  I  should  see  that  it 
was  only  her  radiant  temper  which  so  illumi- 
nated her  dress  that  we  did  not  see  it  to  be 
heavy  sables. 

"  But  when,  one  day,  I  did  raise  my  glasses, 
and  glanced  at  her,  I  did  not  see  the  old  maid 
•whom  we  all  pitied  for  a  secret  sorrow,  but  a 
"woman  whose  nature  was  a  tropic,  in  which 


132  PRUE    AND    I. 

the  sun  shone,  and  birds  sang,  and  flowers 
bloomed  forever.  There  were  no  regrets,  no 
doubts  and  half  wishes,  but  a  calm  sweetness,. 
a  transparent  peace.  I  saw  her  blush  when 
that  old  lover  passed  by,  or  paused  to  speak 
to  her,  but  it  was  only  the  sign  of  delicate 
feminine  consciousness.  She  knew  his  love, 
and  honored  it,  although  she  could  not  under- 
stand it  nor  return  it.  I  looked  closely  at  her,, 
and  I  saw  that  although  all  the  world  had  ex- 
claimed at  her  indifference  to  such  homage, 
and  had  declared  it  was  astonishing  she 
should  lose  so  fine  a  match,  she  would  only 
say  simply  and  quietly : 

"  '  If  Shakespeare  loved  me  and  I  did  not 
love  him,  how  could  I  marry  him  ? ' 

"  Could  I  be  misanthropical  when  I  saw- 
such  fidelity,  and  dignity,  and  simplicity? 

"  You  may  believe  that  I  was  especially 
curious  to  look  at  that  old  lover  of  her  through 
my  glasses.  He  was  no  longer  young,  you 
know,  when  I  came,  and  his  fame  and  fortune 
were  secure.  Certainly  I  have  heard  of  few 
men  more  beloved,  and  of  none  more  worthy 
to  be  loved.  He  had  the  easy  manner  of  a 
man  of  the  world,  the  sensitive  grace  of  a  poet, 
and  the  charitable  judgment  of  a  wide  trav- 
eler. He  was  accounted  the  most  successful 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.  133 

and  most  unspoiled  of  men.  Handsome,  brill- 
iant, wise,  tender,  graceful,  accomplished,  rich, 
and  famous,  I  looked  at  him,  without  the 
spectacles,  in  surprise,  and  admiration,  and 
wondered  how  your  neighbor  over  the  way 
had  been  so  entirely  untouched  by  his  homage. 
I  watched  their  intercourse  in  society,  I  saw 
her  gay  smile,  her  cordial  greeting;  I  marked 
his  frank  address,  his  lofty  courtesy.  Their 
manner  told  no  tales.  The  eager  world  was 
balked,  and  I  pulled  out  my  spectacles. 

"  I  had  seen  her  already,  and  now  I  saw 
him.  He  lived  only  in  memory,  and  his  mem- 
ory was  a  spacious  and  stately  palace.  But  he 
did  not  oftenest  frequent  the  banqueting  hall, 
where  were  endless  hospitality  and  feasting — 
nor  did  he  loiter  much  in  the  reception  rooms, 
where  a  throng  of  new  visitors  was  forever 
swarming — nor  did  he  feed  his  vanity  by 
haunting  the  apartments  in  which  were  stored 
the  trophies  of  his  varied  triumphs — nor 
dream  much  in  the  great  gallery  hung  with 
pictures  of  his  travels. 

"  From  all  these  lofty  halls  of  memory  he 
constantly  escaped  to  a  remote  and  solitary 
chamber,  into  which  no  one  had  ever  pene- 
trated. But  my  fatal  eyes,  behind  the  glasses, 
followed  and  entered  with  him,  and  saw  that 


134  PRUE    AND    I. 

the  chamber  was  a  chapel.  It  was  dim,  and 
silent,  and  sweet  with  perpetual  incense  that 
burned  upon  an  altar  before  a  picture  forever 
veiled.  There,  whenever  I  chanced  to  look, 
I  saw  him  kneel  and  pray;  and  there, 
by  day  and  by  night,  a  funeral  hymn  was 
chanted. 

"  I  do  not  believe  you  will  be  surprised  that 
I  have  been  content  to  remain  a  deputy  book- 
keeper. My  spectacles  regulated  my  ambi- 
tion, and  I  early  learned  that  there  were  better 
gods  than  Plutus.  The  glasses  have  lost 
much  of  their  fascination  now,  and  I  do  not 
often  use  them.  But  sometimes  the  desire  is 
irresistible.  Whenever  I  am  greatly  inter- 
ested, I  am  compelled  to  take  them  out  and 
see  what  it  is  that  I  admire. 

"  And  yet— and  yet,"  said  Titbottom,  after 
a  pause,  "  I  am  not  sure  that  I  thank  my 
grandfather." 

Prue  had  long  since  laid  away  her  work,, 
and  had  heard  every  word  of  the  story.  I 
saw  that  the  dear  woman  had  yet  one  question 
to  ask,  and  had  been  earnestly  hoping  to  hear 
something  that  would  spare  her  the  necessity 
of  asking.  But  Titbottom  had  resumed  his 
usual  tone,  after  the  momentary  excitement, 
and  made  no  further  allusion  to  himself.  We 


TITBOTTOM  S    SPECTACLES.  135 

all  sat  silently:  Titbottom's  eyes  fastened 
musingly  upon  the  carpet,  Prue  looked  wist- 
fully at  him,  and  I  regarding  both. 

It  was  past  midnight,  and  our  guest  arose 
to  go.  He  shook  hands  quietly,  made  his 
grave  Spanish  bow  to  Prue,  and  taking  his. 
hat,  went  toward  the  front  door.  Prue  and  I 
accompanied  him.  I  saw  in  her  eyes  that  she 
would  ask  her  question.  And  as  Titbottom 
opened  the  door,  I  heard  the  low  words : 

"And  Preciosa?" 

Titbottom  paused.  He  had  just  opened  the 
door,  and  the  moonlight  streamed  over  him  as 
he  stood,  turning  back  to  us. 

"  I  have  seen  her  but  once  since.  It  was  in 
church,  and  she  was  kneeling,  with  her  eyes 
closed,  so  that  she  did  not  see  me.  But  I 
rubbed  the  glasses  well,  and  looked  at  her,  and 
saw  a  white  lily,  whose  stem  was  broken,  but 
which  was  fresh,  and  luminous,  and  fragrant 
still." 

"  That  was  a  miracle/'  interrupted  Prue. 

*'  Madam,  it  was  a  miracle,"  replied  Titbot- 
tom, "  and  for  that  one  sight  I  am  devoutly 
grateful  for  my  grandfather's  gift.  I  saw, 
that  although  a  flower  may  have  lost  its  hold 
upon  earthly  moisture,  it  may  still  bloom  as 
sweetly,  fed  by  the  dews  of  heaven." 


136  PRUE    AND    I. 

The  door  closed,  and  he  was  gone.  But  as 
Prue  put  her  arm  in  mine,  and  we  went  up- 
stairs together,  she  whispered  in  my  ear : 

"  How  glad  I  am  that  you  don't  wear  spec- 
tacles.'7 


A  CRUISE  IN  THE  FLYING  DUTCH= 

MAN. 

"  When  I  sailed:  when  I  sailed." 

—Ballad  of  Robert  Kidd. 

WITH  the  opening  of  spring  my  heart 
opens.  My  fancy  expands  with  the  flowers, 
and,  as  I  walk  down  town  in  the  May  morn- 
ing, toward  the  dingy  counting-room,  and  the 
old  routine,  you  would  hardly  believe  that  I 
would  not  change  my  feelings  for  those  of  the 
French  Barber-poet  Jasmin,  who  goes,  merrily 
singing,  to  his  shaving  and  hair-cutting. 

The  first  warm  day  puts  the  whole  winter 
to  flight.  It  stands  in  front  of  the  summer 
like  a  young  warrior  before  his  host,  and, 
single-handed,  defies  and  destroys  its  remorse- 
less enemy. 

I  throw  up  the  chamber  window,  to  breathe 
the  earliest  breath  of  summer. 

"  The  brave  young  David  has  hit  old  Go- 
liath square  in  the  forehead  this  morning,'* 
I  say  to  Prue,  as  I  lean  out,  and  bathe  in  the 
soft  sunshine. 

137 


138  PRUE    AND    I. 

My  wife  is  tying  on  her  cap  at  the  glasst 
and,  not  quite  disentangled  from  her  dreams, 
thinks  I  am  speaking  of  a  street  brawl,  and 
replies  that  I  had  better  take  care  of  my  own 
head. 

"  Since  you  have  charge  of  my  heart,  I  sup- 
pose," I  answer  gayly,  turning  round  to  make 
her  one  of  Titbottom's  bows. 

"  But  seriously,  Prue,  how  is  it  about  my 
summer  wardrobe  ?  " 

Prue  smiles,  and  tells  me  we  shall  have  two 
months  of  winter  yet,  and  I  had  better  stop 
and  order  some  more  coal  as  I  go  down 
town. 

"  Winter— coal!" 

Then  I  step  back,  and  taking  her  by  the  arm, 
lead  her  to  the  window.  I  throw  it  open  even 
wider  than  before.  The  sunlight  streams  on 
the  great  church  towers  opposite,  and  the  trees 
in  the  neighboring  square  glisten,  and  wave 
their  boughs  gently,  as  if  they  would  burst 
into  leaf  before  dinner.  Cages  are  hung  at 
the  open  chamber  windows  in  the  street,  and 
the  birds,  touched  into  song  by  the  sun,  make 
Memnon  true.  Prue's  purple  and  white  hya- 
cinths are  in  full  blossom,  and  perfume  the 
warm  air,  so  that  the  canaries  and  the  mock- 
ing-birds are  no  longer  aliens  in  the  city 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.       139 

streets,  but  are  once  more  swinging  in  their 
spicy  native  groves. 

A  soft  wind  blows  upon  us  as  we  stand, 
listening  and  looking.  Cuba  and  the  Tropics 
are  in  the  air.  The  drowsy  tune  of  a  hand 
organ  rises  from  the  square,  and  Italy  comes 
singing  in  upon  the  sound.  My  triumphant 
eyes  meet  Prue's.  They  are  full  of  sweetness 
and  spring. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  summer  ward- 
robe now  ?  "  I  ask,  and  we  go  down  to  break- 
fast. 

But  the  air  has  magic  in  it,  and  I  do  not 
cease  to  dream.  If  I  meet  Charles,  who  is 
bound  for  Alabama,  or  John,  who  sails  for 
Savannah,  with  a  trunk  full  of  white  jackets,, 
I  do  not  say  to  them,  as  their  other  friends  say  r 

"  Happy  travelers,  who  cut  March  and 
April  out  of  the  dismal  year !  " 

I  do  not  envy  them.  They  will  be  seasick 
on  the  way.  The  southern  winds  will  blow 
all  the  water  out  of  the  rivers,  and,  desolately 
stranded  upon  mud,  they  will  relieve  the  te- 
dium of  the  interval  by  tying  with  large  ropes 
a  young  gentleman  raving  with  delirium 
tremens.  They  will  hurry  along,  appalled  by 
forests  blazing  in  the  windy  night;  and, 
housed  in  a  bad  inn,  they  will  find  themselves? 


140  PRUE    AND    I. 

anxiously  asking,  "  Are  the  cars  punctual  in 
leaving  ?  "  grimly  sure  that  impatient  travelers 
iind  all  conveyances  too  slow.  The  travelers 
are  very  warm,  indeed,  even  in  March  and 
April — but  Prue  doubts  if  it  is  altogether  the 
effect  of  the  southern  climate. 

Why  should  they  go  to  the  South?  If  they 
only  wait  a  little,  the  South  will  come  to  them. 
Savannah  arrives  in  April ;  Florida  in  May ; 
Cuba  and  the  Gulf  come  in  with  June,  and 
the  full  splendor  of  the  Tropics  burns  through 
July  and  August.  Sitting  upon  the  earth,  do 
we  not  glide  by  all  the  constellations,  all  the 
awful  stars?  Does  not  the  flash  of  Orion's 
scimeter  dazzle  as  we  pass  ?  Do  we  not  hear, 
as  we  gaze  in  hushed  midnights,  the  music 
of  the  Lyre;  are  we  not  throned  with  Cas- 
siopea;  do  we  not  play  with  the  tangles  of 
Bernice's  hair,  as  we  sail,  as  we  sail? 

When  Christopher  told  me  that  he  was 
going  to  Italy,  I  went  into  Bourne's  conserva- 
tory, saw  a  magnolia,  and  so  reached  Italy 
before  him.  Can  Christopher  bring  Italy 
home?  But  I  brought  to  Prue  a  branch  of 
magnolia  blossoms,,  with  Mr.  Bourne's 
kindest  regards,  and  she  put  them  upon  her 
table,  and  our  little  house  smelled  of  Italy  for 
a  week  afterward.  The  incident  developed 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.       141 

Prue's  Italian  tastes,  which  I  had  not  sus- 
pected to  be  so  strong.  I  found  her  looking 
very  often  at  the  magnolias;  ever  holding 
them  in  her  hand,  and  standing  before  the 
table  with  a  pensive  air.  I  suppose  she  was 
thinking  of  Beatrice  Cenci,  or  of  Tasso  and 
Leonora,  or  of  the  wife  of  Marino  Faliero,  or 
of  some  other  of  those  sad  old  Italian  tales  o£ 
love  and  woe.  So  easily  Prue  went  to  Italy. 

Thus  the  spring  comes  in  my  heart  as  well 
as  in  the  air,  and  leaps  along  my  veins  as  well 
as  through  the  trees.  I  immediately  travel. 
An  orange  takes  me  to  Sorrento,  and  roses, 
when  they  blow,  to  Psestum.  The  camellias 
in  Aurelia's  hair  bring  Brazil  into  the  happy 
rooms  she  treads,  and  she  takes  me  to  South 
America  as  she  goes  to  dinner.  The  pearls 
upon  her  neck  make  me  free  of  the  Persian 
Gulf.  Upon  her  shawl,  like  the  Arabian 
prince  upon  his  carpet,  I  am  transported  to  the 
vales  of  Cashmere;  and  thus,  as  I  daily  walk 
in  the  bright  spring  days,  I  go  round  the 
world. 

But  the  season  wakes  a  finer  longing,  a  de- 
sire that  could  only  be  satisfied  if  the  pavilions 
of  the  Clouds  were  real,  and  I  could  stroll 
among  die  towering  splendors  of  a  sultry 
spring  evening.  Ah!  if  I  could  leap  those 


14*  PRUE    AND    I. 

• 

flaming  battlements  that  glow  along  the  West 
— if  I  could  tread  those  cool,  dewy,  serene  isles 
•of  sunset,  and  sink  with  them  in  the  sea  of 
•stars. 

I  say  so  to  Prue,  and  my  wife  smiles. 

"  But  why  is  it  so  impossible,"  I  ask,  "  if 
you  go  to  Italy  upon  a  magnolia  branch  ?  " 

The  smile  fades  from  her  eyes. 

"  I  went  a  shorter  voyage  than  that,"  she 
answered ;  "  it  was  only  to  Mr.  Bourne's." 

I  walked  slowly  out  of  the  house,  and  over- 
took Titbottom  as  I  went.  He  smiled  gravely 
as  he  greeted  me  and  said : 

"  I  have  been  asked  to  invite  you  to  join  a 
little  pleasure  party." 

"Where  is  it  going?" 

"  Oh !  anywhere,"  answered  Titbottom. 

"And  how?" 

"  Oh !  anyhow,"  he  replied. 

"  You  mean  that  everybody  is  to  go  wher- 
ever he  pleases,  and  in  the  way  he  best  can. 
My  dear  Titbottom,  I  have  long  belonged  to 
that  pleasure  party,  although  I  never  heard  it 
-called  by  so  pleasant  a  name  before." 

My  companion  said  only: 

"  If  you  would  like  to  join  I  will  introduce 
you  to  the  party.  I  cannot  go,  but  they  are 
all  on  board." 


A    CRUISE   IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.       143 

I  answered  nothing ;  but  Titbottom  drew  me 
along.  We  took  a  boat  and  put  off  to  the 
most  extraordinary  craft  I  had  ever  seen.  We 
approached  her  stern,  and  as  I  curiously  looked 
at  it,  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  an  old 
picture  that  hung  in  my  father's  house.  It 
was  of  the  Flemish  school,  and  represented 
the  rear  view  of  the  vrouw  of  a  burgomaster 
going  to  market.  The  wide  yards  were 
stretched  like  elbows,  and  even  the  studding- 
sails  were  spread.  The  hull  was  seared  and 
blistered,  and,  in  the  tops,  I  saw  what  I 
supposed  to  be  strings  of  turnips  or  cab- 
bages, little  round  masses,  with  tufted 
crests,  but  Titbottom  assured  me  they  were 
sailors. 

We  rowed  hard,  but  came  no  nearer  the 
vessel. 

"  She  is  going  with  the  tide  and  wind,"  said 
I ;  "we  shall  never  catch  her." 

My  companion  said  nothing. 

"  But  why  have  they  set  the  studding- 
sails?"  asked  I. 

"  She  never  takes  in  any  sails,"  answered 
Titbottom. 

"  The  more  fool  she,"  thought  I,  a  little  im- 
patiently, angry  at  not  getting  nearer  to  the 
vessel.  But  I  did  not  say  it  aloud.  I  would 


144  PRUE    AND    I. 

as  soon  have  said  it  to  Prue  as  to  Titbottom, 
The  truth  is,  I  began  to  feel  a  little  ill,  from 
the  motion  of  the  boat,  and  remembered,  with 
a  shade  of  regret,  Prue  and  peppermint.  If 
wives  could  only  keep  their  husbands  a  little 
nauseated,  I  am  confident  they  might  be  very 
sure  of  their  constancy. 

But  somehow  the  strange  ship  was  gained, 
and  I  found  myself  among  as  singular  a  com- 
pany as  I  have  ever  seen.  There  were  men  of 
every  country,  and  costumes  of  all  kinds. 
There  was  an  indescribable  mistiness  in  the 
air,  or  a  premature  twilight,  in  which  all  the 
figures  looked  ghostly  and  unreal.  The  ship 
was  of  a  model  such  as  I  had  never  seen,  and 
the  rigging  had  a  musty  odor,  so  that  the 
whole  craft  smelled  like  a  ship  chandler's  shop 
grown  moldy.  The  figures  glided  rather 
than  walked  about,  and  I  perceived  a  strong 
smell  of  cabbage  issuing  from  the  hold.  But 
the  most  extraordinary  thing  of  all  was  the 
sense  of  resistless  motion  which  possessed  my 
mind  the  moment  my  foot  struck  the  deck.  I 
could  have  sworn  we  were  dashing  through 
the  water  at  the  rate  of  twenty  knots  an  hour. 
(  Prue  has  a  great,  but  a  little  ignorant  admira- 
tion of  my  technical  knowledge  of  nautical 
affairs  and  phrases.)  I  looked  aloft  and  saw 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.       145 

the  sails  taut  with  a  stiff  breeze,  and  I  heard 
a  faint  whistling  of  the  wind  in  the  rigging, 
but  very  faint,  and  rather  it  seemed  to  me,  as 
if  it  came  from  the  creak  of  cordage  in  the 
ships  of  Crusaders ;  or  of  quaint  old  craft  upon 
the  Spanish  main,  echoing  through  remote 
years — so  far  away  it  sounded. 

Yet  I  heard  no  orders  given ;  I  saw  no  sail- 
ors running  aloft,  and  only  one  figure  crouch- 
ing over  the  wheel.  He  was  lost  behind  his 
great  beard  as  behind  a  snowdrift.  But  the 
startling  speed  with  which  we  scudded  along 
did  not  lift  a  solitary  hair  of  that  beard,  nor 
did  the  old  and  withered  face  of  the  pilot  be- 
tray any  curiosity  or  interest  as  to  what 
breakers,  or  reefs,  or  pitiless  shores,  might  be 
lying  in  ambush  to  destroy  us. 

.Still  on  we  swept ;  and  as  the  traveler  in  a 
night  train  knows  that  he  is  passing  green 
fields,  and  pleasant  gardens,  and  winding 
streams  fringed  with  flowers,  and  is  now  glid- 
ing through  tunnels  or  darting  along  the  base 
of  fearful  cliffs,  so  I  was  conscious  that  we 
were  pressing  through  various  climates  and 
by  romantic  shores.  In  vain  I  peered  into  the 
gray  twilight  mist  that  folded  all.  I  could 
only  see  the  vague  figures  that  grew  and  faded 
upon  the  haze,  as  my  eye  fell  upon  them,  like 


146  PRUE    AND    I. 

the  intermittent  characters  of  sympathetic  ink 
when  heat  touches  them. 

Now,  it  was  a  belt  of  warm,  odorous  air  in 
which  we  sailed,  and  then  cold  as  the  breath 
of  a  polar  ocean.  The  perfume  of  new  mown 
hay  and  the  breath  of  roses,  came  mingled 
with  the  distant  music  of  bells,  and  the  twit- 
tering song  of  birds,  and  a  low  surf-like  sound 
of  the  wind  in  summer  woods.  There  were 
all  sounds  of  pastoral  beauty,  of  a  tranquil 
landscape  such  as  Prue  loves — and  which  shall 
be  painted  as  the  background  of  her  portrait 
whenever  she  sits  to  any  of  my  many  artist 
friends — and  that  pastoral  beauty  shall  be 
called  England.  I  strained  my  eyes  into  the 
cruel  mist  that  held  all  that  music  and  all  that 
suggested  beauty,  but  I  could  see  nothing.  It 
was  so  sweet  that  I  scarcely  knew  if  I  cared 
to  see.  The  very  thought  of  it  charmed  my 
senses  and  satisfied  my  heart.  I  smelled  and 
heard  the  landscape  that  I  could  not  see. 

Then  the  pungent,  penetrating  fragrance  of 
blossoming  vineyards  was  wafted  across  the 
air;  the  flowery  richness  of  orange  groves, 
and  the  sacred  odor  of  crushed  bay  leaves, 
such  as  is  pressed  from  them  when  they  are 
strewn  upon  the  flat  pavement  of  the  streets  of 
Florence,  and  gorgeous  priestly  processions 


A   CRUISE   IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.      147 

tread  them  under  foot.  A  stream  of  incense 
filled  the  air.  I  smelled  Italy — as  in  the  mag- 
nolia from  Bourne's  garden — and,  even  while 
my  heart  leaped  with  the  consciousness,  the 
odor  passed,  and  a  stretch  of  burning  silence 
succeeded. 

It  was  an  oppressive  zone  of  heat — oppres- 
sive not  only  from  its  silence  but  from  the 
sense  of  awful  antique  forms,  whether  of  art 
or  nature,  that  were  sitting,  closely  veiled,  in 
that  mysterious  obscurity.  I  shuddered  as  I 
felt  that  if  my  eyes  could  pierce  that  mist,  or 
if  it  should  lift  and  roll  away,  I  should  see 
upon  a  silent  shore  low  ranges  of  lonely  hills, 
or  mystic  figures  and  huge  temples  trampled 
out  of  history  by  time. 

This,  too,  we  left.  There  was  a  rustling  of 
•distant  palms,  the  indistinct  roar  of  beasts,  and 
the  hiss  of  serpents.  Then  all  was  still  again. 
Only  at  times  the  remote  sigh  of  the  weary 
sea,  moaning  around  desolate  isles  undis- 
covered;  and  the  howl  of  winds  that  had 
never  wafted  human  voices,  but  had  rung  end- 
less changes  upon  the  sound  of  dashing 
waters,  made  the  voyage  more  appalling  and 
the  figures  around  me  more  fearful. 

As  the  ship  plunged  on  through  all  the  vary- 
ing zones,  as  climate  and  country  drifted  be- 


148  PRUE    AND    I. 

hind  us,  unseen  in  the  gray  mist,  but  each,  in 
turn,  making  that  quaint  craft  England  or 
Italy,  Africa  and  the  Southern  seas,  I  ventured 
to  steal  a  glance  at  the  motley  crew,  to  see 
what  impression  this  wild  career  produced 
upon  them. 

They  sat  about  the  deck  in  a  hundred  list- 
less postures.  Some  leaned  idly  over  the  bul- 
warks, and  looked  wistfully  away  from  the 
ship,  as  if  they  fancied  they  saw  all  that  I 
inferred  but  could  not  see.  As  the  perfume, 
and  sound,  and  climate  changed,  I  could  see 
many  a  longing  eye  sadden  and  grow  moist, 
and  as  the  chime  of  bells  echoed  distinctly 
like  the  airy  syllables  of  names,  and,  as  it  were, 
made  pictures  in  music  upon  the  minds  of 
those  quaint  mariners — then  dry  lips  moved, 
perhaps  to  name  a  name,  perhaps  to  breathe  a 
prayer.  Others  sat  upon  the  deck,  vacantly 
smoking  pipes  that  required  no  refilling,  but 
had  an  immortality  of  weed  and  fire.  The 
more  they  smoked  the  more  mysterious  they 
became.  The  smoke  made  the  mist  around 
them  more  impenetrable,  and  I  could  clearly 
see  that  those  distant  sounds  gradually  grew 
more  distant,  and,  by  some  of  the  most  des- 
perate and  constant  smokers,  were  heard  no 
more.  The  faces  of  such  had  an  apathy, 


A   CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.      149 

which,  had  it  been  human,  would  have  been 
despair. 

Others  stood  staring  up  into  the  rigging,  as 
if  calculating  when  the  sails  must  needs  be 
rent  and  the  voyage  end.  But  there  was  no 
hope  in  their  eyes,  only  a  bitter  longing. 
Some  paced  restlessly  up  and  down  the  deck. 
They  had  evidently  been  walking  a  long,  long 
time.  At  intervals  they,  too,  threw  a  search- 
ing glance  into  the  mist  that  enveloped  the 
the  ship,  and  up  into  the  sails  and  rigging  that 
stretched  over  them  in  hopeless  strength  and 
order. 

One  of  the  promenaders  I  especially  noticed. 
His  beard  was  long  and  snowy,  like  that  of  the 
pilot.  He  had  a  staff  in  his  hand,  and  his 
movement  was  very  rapid.  His  body  swung 
forward,  as  if  to -avoid  something,  and  his 
glance,  half  turned  back  over  his  shoulder, 
apprehensively,  as  if  he  were  threatened  from 
behind.  The  head  and  the  whole  figure  were 
bowed  as  if  under  a  burden,  although  I  could 
could  not  see  that  he  had  anything  upon  his 
shoulders ;  and  his  gait  was  not  that  of  a  man 
who  is  walking  off  the  ennui  of  a  voyage,  but 
rather  of  a  criminal  flying,  or  of  a  startled 
traveler  pursued. 

As  he  came  near  to  me  in  his  walk,  I  saw 


150  PRUE    AND    I. 

that  his  features  were  strongly  Hebrew,  and 
there  was  an  air  of  the  proudest  dignity,  fear- 
fully abased,  in  his  mien  and  expression.  It 
was  more  than  the  dignity  of  an  individual.  I 
could  have  believed  that  the  pride  of  a  race 
was  humbled  in  his  person. 

His  agile  eye  presently  fastened  itself  upon 
me,  as  a  stranger.  He  came  nearer  and  nearer 
to  me,  as  he  paced  rapidly  to  and  fro,  and  was 
evidently  several  times  on  the  point  of  address- 
ing me,  but,  looking  over  his  shoulder  appre- 
hensively, he  passed  on.  At  length,  with  a 
great  effort,  he  paused  for  an  instant,  and  in- 
vited me  to  join  him  in  his  walk.  Before  the 
invitation  was  fairly  uttered,  he  was  in  motion 
again.  I  followed,  but  I  could  not  overtake 
him.  He  kept  just  before  me,  and  turned  oc- 
casionally with  an  air  of  terror,  as  if  he  fancied 
I  were  dogging  him;  then  glided  on  more 
rapidly. 

His  face  was  by  no  means  agreeable,  but  it 
had  an  inexplicable  fascination,  as  if  it  had 
been  turned  upon  what  no  other  mortal  eyes 
had  ever  seen.  Yet  I  could  hardly  tell 
whether  it  were,  probably,  an  object  of  su- 
preme beauty  or  of  terror.  He  looked  at 
everything  as  if  he  hoped  its  impression  might 
obliterate  some  anterior  and  awful  one ;  and  I 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.       151 

was  gradually  possessed  with  the  unpleasant 
idea  that  his  eyes  were  never  closed — that,  in. 
fact,  he  never  slept.  Suddenly,  fixing  me  with 
his  unnatural,  wakeful  glare,  he  whispered 
something  which  I  could  not  understand,  and 
then  darted  forward  even  more  rapidly,  as  if 
he  dreaded  that,  in  merely  speaking,  he  had 
lost  time. 

Still  the  ship  drove  on,  and  I  walked  hur- 
riedly along  the  deck,  just  behind  my  com- 
panion. But  our  speed  and  that  of  the  ship 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  moldy  smell  of 
old  rigging,  and  the  listless  and  lazy  groups, 
smoking  and  leaning  on  the  bulwarks.  The 
seasons,  in  endless  succession  and  iteration, 
passed  over  the  ship.  The  twilight  was  sum- 
mer haze  at  the  stern,  while  it  was  the  fiercest 
winter  mist  at  the  bows.  But  as  a  tropical 
breath,  like  the  warmth  of  a  Syrian  day,  sud- 
denly touched  the  brow  of  my  companion,  he- 
sighed,  and  I  could  not  help  saying: 

"  You  must  be  tired." 

He  only  shook  his  head  and  quickened  his 
pace.  But  now  that  I  had  once  spoken,  it 
was  not  so  difficult  to  speak,  and  I  asked  him 
why  he  did  not  stop  and  rest. 

He  turned  for  a  moment,  and  a  mournful 
sweetness  shone  in  his  dark  eyes  and  haggard,. 


152  PRUE    AND    I. 

swarthy  face.  It  played  flittingly  around  that 
strange  look  of  ruined  human  dignity,  like  a 
wan  beam  of  late  sunset  about  a  crumbling 
and  forgotten  temple.  He  put  his  hand 
hurriedly  to  his  forehead,  as  if  he  were  trying 
to  remember — like  a  lunatic,  who,  having 
heard  only  the  wrangle  of  fiends  in  his  de- 
lirium, suddenly,  in  a  conscious  moment,  per- 
ceives the  familiar  voice  of  love.  But  who 
could  this  be,  to  whom  mere  human  sympathy 
was  so  startlingly  sweet? 

Still  moving,  he  whispered  with  a  woeful 
sadness,  "  I  want  to  stop,  but  I  cannot.  If  I 
could  only  stop  long  enough  to  leap  over  the 
bulwarks !  " 

Then  he  sighed  long  and  deeply,  and  added, 
"  But  I  should  not  drown." 

So  much  had  my  interest  been  excited  by  his 
face  and  movement,  that  I  had  not  observed 
the  costume  of  this  strange  being.  He  wore 
a  black  hat  upon  his  head.  It  was  not  only 
black,  but  it  was  shiny.  Even  in  the  midst  of 
this  wonderful  scene,  I  could  observe  that  it 
had  the  artificial  newness  of  a  second-hand 
hat ;  and,  at  the  same  moment,  I  was  disgusted 
by  the  odor  of  old  clothes — very  old  clothes, 
indeed.  The  mist  and  my  sympathy  had  pre- 
vented my  seeing  before  what  a  singular  garb 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.      153 

the  figure  wore.  It  was  all  second-hand  and 
carefully  ironed,  but  the  garments  were  ob- 
viously collected  from  every  part  of  the  civi- 
lized globe.  Good  heavens !  as  I  looked  at  the. 
coat,  I  had  a  strange  sensation.  It  was  my 
wedding  surtout — long  in  the  skirts — which 
Prue  had  told  me,  years  and  years  before,  she 
had  given  away  to  the  neediest  Jew  beggar  she 
had  ever  seen. 

The  spectral  figure  dwindled  in  my  fancy 
— the  features  lost  their  antique  grandeur, 
and  the  restless  eye  ceased  to  be  sublime  from 
immortal  sleeplessness,  and  became  only  lively 
with  mean  cunning.  The  apparition  was  fear- 
fully grotesque,  but  the  driving  ship  and  the 
mysterious  company  gradually  restored  its 
tragic  interest.  I  stopped  and  leaned  against 
the  side,  and  heard  the  rippling  water  that  I 
could  not  see,  and  flitting  through  the  mist,, 
with  anxious  speed,  the  figure  held  its  way. 
What  was  he  flying?  What  conscience  with. 
relentless  sting  pricked  this  victim  on? 

He  came  again  nearer  and  nearer  to  me,  in 
his  walk.  I  recoiled  with  disgust,  this  time,, 
no  less  than  terror.  But  he  seemed  resolved 
to  speak,  and,  finally,  each  time,  as  he  passed 
me,  he  asked  single  questions,  as  a  ship  which 
fires  whenever  it  can  bring  a  gun  to  bear. 


154  PRUE    AND    I. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  for  what  port  we  are 
bound  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied ;  "  but  how  came  you  to  take 
passage  without  inquiry?  To  me  it  makes 
little  difference." 

"  Nor  do  I  care,"  he  answered,  when  he  next 
•came  near  enough ;  "  I  have  already  been 
there." 

"Where?"  asked  I. 

"  Wherever  we  are  going,"  he  replied.  "  I 
have  been  there  a  great  many  times,  and  oh! 
J  am  very  tired  of  it." 

"  But  why  are  you  here  at  all,  then ;  and 
why  don't  you  stop  ?  " 

There  was  a  singular  mixture  of  a  hundred 
•conflicting  emotions  in  his  face,  as  I  spoke. 
The  representative  grandeur  of  a  race,  which 
lie  sometimes  showed  in  his  look,  faded  into  a 
.glance  of  hopeless  and  puny  despair.  His 
eyes  looked  at  me  curiously,  his  chest  heaved, 
and  there  was  clearly  a  struggle  in  his  mind, 
between  some  lofty  and  mean  desire.  At 
times  I  saw  only  the  austere  suffering  of  ages 
in  his  strongly-carved  features,  and  again  I 
could  see  nothing  but  the  second-hand  black 
hat  above  them.  He  rubbed  his  forehead  with 
his  skinny  hand ;  he  glanced  rver  his  shoulder, 
as  if  calculating  whether  he  had  time  to  speak 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.      155 

to  me ;  and  then,  as  a  splendid  defiance  flashed 
from  his  piercing  eyes,  so  that  I  know  how 
Milton's  Satan  looked,  he  said,  bitterly,  and 
with  hopeless  sorrow,  that  no  mortal  voice 
ever  knew  before : 

"  I  cannot  stop ;  my  woe  is  infinite,  like  my 
sin !  "  and  he  passed  into  the  mist. 

But,  in  a  few  moments  he  reappeared.  I 
could  now  see  only  the  hat,  which  sank  more 
and  more  over  his  face,  until  it  covered  it  en- 
tirely; and  I  heard  a  querulous  voice,  which 
seemed  to  be  quarreling  with  itself,  for  saying 
what  it  was  compelled  to  say,  so  that  the 
words  were  even  more  appalling  than  what  it 
had  said  before: 

"  Old  clo' !  old  clo' !  " 

I  gazed  at  the  disappearing  figure,  in- 
speechless  amazement,  and  was  still  looking,, 
when  I  was  tapped  upon  the  shoulder  and,, 
turning  around,  saw  a  German  cavalry  officer, 
with  a  heavy  mustache,  and  dog-whistle  in 
his  hand. 

"  Most  extraordinary  man,  your  friend  yon- 
der," said  the  officer;  "I  don't  remember  to- 
have  seen  him  in  Turkey,  and  yet  I  recognize 
upon  his  feet  the  boots  that  I  wore  in  the  great 
Russian  cavalry  charge,  where  I  individually 
rode  down  five  hundred  and  thirty  Turks,  slew 


156  PRUE    AND    I. 

seven  hundred,  at  a  moderate  computation,  by 
the  mere  force  of  my  rush,  and,  taking  the 
seven  insurmountable  walls  of  Constantinople 
at  one  clean  flying  leap,  rode  straight  into  the 
seraglio  and,  dropping  the  bridle,  cut  the 
sultan's  throat  with  my  bridle-hand,  kissed  the 
other  to  the  ladies  of  the  harem,  and  was 
back  again  within  our  lines  and  taking  a  glass 
of  wine  with  the  hereditary  Grand  Duke 
Generalissimo  before  he  knew  that  I  had 
mounted.  Oddly  enough,  your  old  friend  is 
now  sporting  the  identical  boots  I  wore  on  that 
occasion." 

The  cavalry  officer  coolly  curled  his  mus- 
tache with  his  fingers.  I  looked  at  him  in 
silence. 

"  Speaking  of  boots,"  he  resumed,  "  I  don't 
remember  to  have  told  you  of  that  little  inci- 
dent of  the  Princess  of  the  Crimea's  diamonds. 
It  was  slight,  but  curious.  I  was  dining  one 
•day  with  the  Emperor  of  the  Crimea,  who  al- 
ways had  a  cover  laid  for  me  at  his  table,  when 
lie  said,  in  great  perplexity,  '  Baron,  my  boy, 
I  am  in  straits.  The  Shah  of  Persia  has  just 
sent  me  word  that  he  has  presented  me  with 
two  thousand  pearl-of-Oman  necklaces,  and  I 
don't  know  how  to  get  them  over,  the  duties 
are  so  heavy/  '  Nothing  easier,'  replied  I ; 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.       157 

'  I'll  bring  them  in  my  boots.'  '  Nonsense ! ' 
said  the  Emperor  of  the  Crimea.  '  Nonsense  I 
yourself,'  replied  I,  sportively ;  for  the  emperor 
of  the  Crimea  always  gives  me  my  joke ;  and 
so  after  dinner  I  went  over  to  Persia.  The 
thing  was  easily  enough  done.  I  ordered  a 
hundred  thousand  pairs  of  boots  or  so,  filled 
them  with  the  pearls ;  said  at  the  custom  house 
that  they  were  part  of  my  private  wardrobe, 
and  I  had  left  the  blocks  in  to  keep  them 
stretched,  for  I  was  particular  about  my 
bunions.  The  officers  bowed,  and  said  that 
their  own  feet  were  tender,  upon  which  I  jok- 
ingly remarked  that  I  wished  their  consciences 
were,  and  so  in  the  pleasantest  manner  pos- 
sible the  pearl-of-Oman  necklaces  were  bowed 
out  of  Persia,  and  the  Emperor  of  the  Crimea 
gave  me  three  thousand  of  them  as  my  share. 
It  was  no  trouble.  It  was  only  ordering  the 
boots,  and  whistling  to  the  infernal  rascals  of 
Persian  shoemakers  to  hang  for  their  pay." 

I  could  reply  nothing  to  my  new  acquaint- 
ance, but  I  treasured  his  stories  to  tell  to  Prue, 
and  at  length  summoned  courage  to  ask  him 
why  he  had  taken  passage. 

"  Pure  fun,"  answered  he,  "  nothing  else 
under  the  sun.  You  see,  it  happened  in  this 
way:  I  was  sitting  quietly  and  swinging  in  a 


358  PRUE    AND    I. 

cedar  of  Lebanon,  on  the  very  summit  of  that 
mountain,  when  suddenly,  feeling  a  little 
warm,  I  took  a  brisk  dive  into  the  Mediter- 
ranean. Now  I  was  careless,  and  got  going 
•obliquely,  and  with  the  force  of  such  a  dive 
I  could  not  come  up  near  Sicily,  as  I  had  in- 
tended, but  I  went  clean  under  Africa,  and 
-came  out  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  and  as 
fortune  would  have  it,  just  as  this  good  ship 
was  passing.  So  I  sprang  over  the  side,  and 
-offered  the  crew  to  treat  all  round  if  they 
would  tell  me  where  I  started  from.  But  I 
.suppose  they  had  just  been  piped  to  grog,  for 
not  a  man  stirred,  except  your  friend  yonder, 
•and  he  only  kept  on  stirring." 

"  Are  you  going  far?  "  I  asked. 

The  cavalry  officer  looked  a  little  disturbed. 
'"  I  cannot  precisely  tell,"  answered  he,  "  in 
fact,  I  wish  I  could;"  and  he  glanced  round 
nervously  at  the  strange  company. 

"If  you  should  come  our  way,  Prue  and  I 
will  be  very  glad  to  see  you,"  said  I,  "  and  I 
can  promise  you  a  warm  welcome  from  the 
children." 

"  Many  thanks,"  said  the  officer — and 
.handed  me  his  card,  upon  which  I  read,  Le 
Baron  Munchausen. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  a  low  voice  at 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.      159 

my  side;  and,  turning,  I  saw  one  of  the  most 
constant  smokers — a  very  old  man — "  I  beg 
your  pardon,  but  can  you  tell  me  where  I  came 
from?" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  cannot,"  answered  I, 
as  I  surveyed  a  man  with  a  very  bewildered 
and  wrinkled  face,  who  seemed  to  me  intently 
looking  for  something. 

"  Nor  where  I  am  going?  " 

I  replied  that  it  was  equally  impossible.  He 
mused  a  few  moments,  and  then  said  slowly, 
"  Do  you  know,  it  is  a  very  strange  thing  that 
I  have  not  found  anybody  who  can  answer  me 
either  of  those  questions.  And  yet  I  must 
have  come  from  somewhere,"  said  he  specu- 
latively — "  yes,  and  I  must  be  going  some- 
where, and  I  should  really  like  to  know  some- 
thing about  it." 

"  I  observe,"  said  I,  "  that  you  smoke  a 
good  deal,  and  perhaps  you  find  tobacco 
clouds  your  brain  a  little." 

"  Smoke !  Smoke !  "  repeated  he,  sadly 
dwelling  upon  the  words ;  "  why,  it  all  seems 
smoke  to  me,"  and  he  looked  wistfully  around 
the  deck,  and  I  felt  quite  ready  to  agree  with 
him. 

"  May  I  ask  what  you  are  here  for,"  in- 
quired I ;  "  perhaps  your  health,  or  business 


l6o  PRUE    AND    I. 

of  some  kind;  although  I  was  told  it  was  a 
pleasure  party  ?  " 

"  That's  just  it,"  said  he;  "  if  I  only  knew 
where  we  were  going,  I  might  be  able  to  say 
something  about  it.  But  where  are  you 
going?" 

"  I  am  going  home  as  fast  as  I  can,"  replied 
I  warmly,  for  I  began  to  be  very  uncomfort- 
able. The  old  man's  eyes  half  closed,  and  his 
mind  seemed  to  have  struck  a  scent. 

"  Isn't  that  where  I  was  going?  I  believe 
it  is ;  I  wish  I  knew ;  I  think  that's  what  it  is 
called.  Where  is  home?" 

And  the  old  man  puffed  a  prodigious  cloud 
of  smoke,  in  which  he  was  quite  lost. 

"  It  is  certainly  very  smoky,"  said  he,  "  I 
came  on  board  this  ship  to  go  to — in  fact,  I 
meant,  as  I  wras  saying,  I  took  passage  for — " 
He  smoked  silently.  "  I  beg  your  pardon, 
but  where  did  you  say  I  was  going?  " 

Out  of  the  mist  where  he  had  been  leaning 
over  the  side,  and  gazing  earnestly  into  the 
surrounding  obscurity,  now  came  a  pale  young 
man,  and  put  his  arm  in  mine. 

"  I  see,"  said  he,  "  that  you  have  rather  a 
general  acquaintance,  and,  as  you  know  many 
persons,  perhaps  you  know  many  things.  I 
am  young,  you  see,  but  I  am  a  great  traveler. 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.       l6l 

I  have  been  all  over  the  world,  and  in  all  kinds 
of  conveyances ;  but,"  he  continued,  nervously, 
starting  continually,  and  looking  around,  "  I 
haven't  yet  got  abroad." 

"  Not  got  abroad,  and  yet  you  have  been 
everywhere  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  know,"  he  replied,  hurriedly ; 
"  but  I  mean  that  I  haven't  yet  got  away.  I 
travel  constantly,  but  it  does  no  good — and 
perhaps  you  can  tell  me  the  secret  I  want  to 
know.  I  will  pay  any  sum  for  it.  I  am  very 
rich  and  very  young,  and  if  money  cannot  buy 
it,  I  will  give  as  many  years  of  my  life  as  you 
require." 

He  moved  his  hands  convulsively,  and  his 
hair  was  wet  upon  his  forehead.  He  was  very 
handsome  in  that  mystic  light,  but  his  eye 
burned  with  eagerness,  and  his  slight,  graceful 
frame  thrilled  with  the  earnestness  of  his 
emotion.  The  Emperor  Hadrian,  who  loved 
the  boy  Antinous,  would  have  loved  the  youth. 

"  But  what  is  it  that  you  wish  to  leave  be- 
hind ? "  said  I,  at  length,  holding  his  arm 
paternally ;  "  what  do  you  wish  to  escape  ?  " 

He  threw  his  arms  straight  down  by  his 
side,  clinched  his  hands  and  looked  fixedly  in 
my  eyes.  The  beautiful  head  was  thrown  a 
little  back  upon  one  shoulder,  and  the  wan  face 


l62  PRUE    AND    I. 

glowed  with  yearning  desire  and  utter  aban- 
donment to  confidence,  so  that,  without  his 
saying  it,  I  knew  that  he  had  never  whispered 
the  secret  which  he  was  about  to  impart  to  me. 
Then  with  a  long  sigh,  as  if  his  life  were  ex- 
haling, he  whispered: 

"  Myself." 

"  Ah,  my  boy !  you  are  bound  upon  a  long; 
journey." 

"  I  know  it,"  he  replied  mournfully ;  "  and 
I  cannot  even  get  started.  If  I  don't  get  off 
in  this  ship,  I  fear  I  shall  never  escape."  His 
last  words  were  lost  in  the  mist  which  gradu- 
ally removed  him  from  my  view. 

"  The  youth  has  been  amusing  you  with 
some  of  his  wild  fancies,  I  suppose,"  said  a 
venerable  man,  who  might  have  been  twin 
brother  of  that  snowy-bearded  pilot.  "  It  is  a 
great  pity  so  promising  a  young  man  should 
be  the  victim  of  such  vagaries." 

He  stood  looking  over  the  side  for  some 
time,  and  at  length  added : 

"  Don't  you  think  we  ought  to  arrive 
soon?" 

"Where?"  asked  I. 

"  Why,  in  Eldorado,  of  course,"  answered 
he.  "  The  truth  is,  I  became  very  tired  of  that 
long  process  to  find  the  Philosopher's  Stone, 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.       163 

and,  although  I  was  just  upon  the  point  of  the 
last  combination  which  must  infallibly  have 
produced  the  medium,  I  abandoned  it  when  I 
fieard  Orellana's  account,  and  found  that 
Nature  had  already  done  in  Eldorado  precisely 
what  I  was  trying  to  do.  You  see,"  continued 
the  old  man  abstractedly,  "  I  had  put  youth, 
and  love,  and  hope,  besides  a  great  many 
scarce  minerals,  into  the  crucible,  and  they  all 
dissolved  slowly  and  vanished  in  vapor.  It 
was  curious,  but  they  left  no  residuum  except 
a  little  ashes,  which  were  not  strong  enough 
to  make  a  lye  to  cure  a  lame  finger.  But,  as 
I  was  saying,  Orellana  told  us  about  Eldorado 
just  in  time,  and  I  thought,  if  any  ship  would 
carry  me  there  it  must  be  this.  But  I  am 
rvery  sorry  to  find  that  anyone  who  is  in 
pursuit  of  such  a  hopeless  goal  as  that  pale 
young  man  yonder,  should  have  taken  passage. 
It  is  only  age,"  he  said,  slowly  stroking  his 
white  beard,  "  that  teaches  us  wisdom,  and 
persuades  us  to  renounce  the  hope  of  escaping 
ourselves;  and  just  as  we  are  discovering  the 
Philosopher's  stone,  relieves  our  anxiety  by 
pointing  the  way  to  Eldorado." 

"Are  we  really  going  there?"  asked  I,  in 
some  trepidation. 

"  Can  there  be  any  doubt  of  it  ?  "  replied  the 


164  PRUE    AND    I. 

old  man.  "  Where  should  we  be  going,  if  not 
there?  However,  let  us  summon  the  passen- 
gers and  ascertain." 

So  saying,  the  venerable  man  beckoned  to 
the  various  groups  that  were  clustered,  ghost- 
like in  the  mist  that  enveloped  the  ship.  They 
seemed  to  draw  nearer  with  listless  curiosity, 
and  stood  or  sat  near  us,  smoking  as  before, 
or,  still  leaning  on  the  side,  idly  gazing.  But 
the  restless  figure  who  had  first  accosted  me, 
still  paced  the  deck,  flitting  in  and  out  of  the 
obscurity;  and  as  he  passed  there  was  the 
same  mien  of  humbled  pride,  and  the  air  of  a 
fate  of  tragic  grandeur,  and  still  the  same  faint 
odor  of  old  clothes,  and  the  low  querulous  cry, 
"  Old  clo' !  old  clo' !" 

The  ship  dashed  on.  Unknown  odors  and 
strange  sounds  still  filled  the  air,  and  all  the 
world  went  by  us  as  we  flew,  with  no  other 
noise  than  the  low  gurgling  of  the  sea  around 
the  side. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  reverend  passenger 
for  Eldorado,  "  I  hope  there  is  no  misappre- 
hension as  to  our  destination  ?  " 

As  he  said  this,  there  was  a  general  move- 
ment of  anxiety  and  curiosity.  Presently  the 
smoker,  who  had  asked  me  where  he  was 
going,  said,  doubtfully : 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.      165 

"  I  don't  know — it  seems  to  me — I  mean  I 
wish  somebody  would  distinctly  say  where  we 
are  going." 

"  I  think  I  can  throw  a  light  upon  this  sub- 
ject," said  a  person  whom  I  had  not  before  re- 
marked. He  was  dressed  like  a  sailor,  and 
had  a  dreamy  eye.  "  It  is  very  clear  to  me 
where  we  are  going.  I  have  been  taking  ob- 
servations for  some  time,  and  I  am  glad  to 
announce  that  we  are  on  the  eve  of  achieving 
great  fame;  and  I  may  add,"  said  he, modestly, 
"  that  my  own  good  name  for  scientific  acumen 
will  be  amply  vindicated.  Gentlemen,  we  are 
undoubtedly  going  into  the  Hole." 

"What  hole  is  that?"  asked  M.  le  Baron 
Munchausen,  a  little  contemptuously. 

"  Sir,  it  will  make  you  more  famous  than 
you  ever  were  before,"  replied  the  first 
speaker,  evidently  much  enraged. 

"  I  am  persuaded  we  are  going  into  no  such 
absurd  place,"  said  the  baron,  exasperated. 

The  sailor  with  the  dreamy  eye  was  fear- 
fully angry.  He  drew  himself  up  stiffly  and 
said : 

"  Sir,  you  lie !  " 

M.  le  Baron  Munchausen  took  it  in  very 
good  part.  He  smiled  and  held  out  his  hand : 

"  My  friend,"  said  he,  blandly,  "  that  is  pre- 


l66  PRUE    AND    I. 

cisely  what  I  have  always  heard.  I  am  glad 
you  do  me  no  more  than  justice.  I  fully  as- 
sent to  your  theory ;  and  your  words  constitute 
me  the  proper  historiographer  of  the  expedi- 
tion. But  tell  me  one  thing,  how  soon,  after 
getting  into  the  Hole,  do  you  think  we  shall 
get  out?" 

"  The  result  will  prove,"  said  the  marine 
gentleman,  handing  the  officer  his  card,  upon 
which  was  written,  Captain  Symmes.  The 
two  gentlemen  then  walked  aside;  and  the 
groups  began  to  sway  to  and  fro  in  the  haze 
as  if  not  quite  contented. 

"  Good  God,"  said  the  pale  youth,  running 
up  to  me  and  clutching  my  arm,  "  I  cannot  go- 
into  any  Hole  alone  with  myself.  I  should 
die — I  should  kill  myself.  I  thought  some- 
body was  on  board,  and  I  hoped  you  were  he, 
who  would  steer  us  to  the  fountain  of  ob- 
livion." 

"  Very  well,  that  is  in  the  Hole,"  said  M.  le 
Baron  who  came  out  of  the  mist  at  that  mo- 
ment, leaning  upon  the  captain's  arm. 

"  But  can  I  leave  myself  outside  ?  "  asked 
the  youth,  nervously. 

"  Certainly,"  interposed  the  old  Alchemist ; 
"  you  may  be  sure  that  you  will  not  get  into 
the  Hole,  until  you  have  left  yourself  behind."" 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.      167* 

The  pale  young  man  grasped  his  hand,  and. 
gazed  into  his  eyes. 

"  And  then  I  can  drink  and  be  happy,'v 
murmured  he,  as  he  leaned  over  the  side  of  the 
ship,  and  listened  to  the  rippling  water,  as  if 
it  had  been  the  music  of  the  fountain  of  obli- 
vion. 

"  Drink !  drink !  "  said  the  smoking  old  man.. 
"  Fountain !  fountain !  Why,  I  believe  that  is: 
what  I  am  after.  I  beg  your  pardon,"  con- 
tinued he,  addressing  the  Alchemist.  "  But 
can  you  tell  me  if  I  am  looking  for  a  foun- 
tain?" 

"  The  fountain  of  youth,  perhaps,"  replied- 
the  Alchemist. 

"  The  very  thing !  "  cried  the  smoker,  with- 
a  shrill  laugh,  while  his  pipe  fell  from  his: 
mouth  and  was  shattered  upon  the  deck  and 
the  old  man  tottered  away  into  the  mist, 
chuckling  feebly  to  himself,  "  Youth  !  youth  !  "' 

"  He'll  find  that  in  the  Hole,  too,"  said  the- 
Alchemist,  as  he  gazed  after  the  receding- 
figure. 

The  crowd  now  gathered  more  nearly 
around  us. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  continued  the  Alchem- 
ist, "  where  shall  we  go,  or,  rather,  where  are 
we  going?'" 


l68  PRUE    AND   I. 

A  man  in  a  friar's  habit,  with  the  cowl 
closely  drawn  about  his  head,  now  crossed 
"himself,  and  whispered: 

"  I  have  but  one  object.  I  should  not  have 
"been  here  if  I  had  not  supposed  we  were  going 
to  find  Prester  John,  to  whom  I  have  been 
.appointed  father  confessor,  and  at  whose  court 
I  am  to  live  splendidly,  like  a  cardinal  at 
P.ome.  Gentlemen,  if  you  will  only  agree 
that  we  shall  go  there,  you  shall  all  be  per- 
mitted to  hold  my  train  when  I  proceed  to  be 
•enthroned  as  Bishop  of  Central  Africa." 

While  he  was  speaking,  another  old  man 
-came  from  the  bows  of  the  ship,  a  figure 
which  had  been  so  immovable  in  its  place  that 
I  supposed  it  was  the  ancient  figurehead  of  the 
craft,  and  said  in  a  low,  hollow  voice,  and  a 
quaint  accent: 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  centuries,  and  I 
cannot  see  it.  I  supposed  we  were  heading 
for  it.  I  thought  sometimes  I  saw  the  flash  of 
distant  spires,  the  sunny  gleam  of  upland 
pastures,  the  soft  undulation  of  purple  hills. 
Ah,  me!  I  am  sure  I  heard  the  singing  of 
fords,  and  the  faint  low  of  cattle.  But  I  do 
not  know;  we  come  no  nearer;  and  yet  I  felt 
its  presence  in  the  air.  If  the  mist  would 
only  lift,  we  should  see  it  lying  so  fair  upon  the 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.       169 

sea,  so  graceful  against  the  sky.  I  fear  we 
may  have  passed  it.  Gentlemen/'  said  he,, 
sadly,  "  I  am  afraid  we  may  have  lost  the 
island  of  Atlantis  forever." 

There  was  a  look  of  uncertainty  in  the 
throng  upon  the  deck. 

"  But  yet,"  said  a  group  of  young  men  ia 
every  kind  of  costume,  and  of  every  country 
and  time,  "  we  have  a  chance  at  the  Encanta- 
das,  the  Enchanted  Islands.  We  were  read- 
ing of  them  only  the  other  day,  and  the  very 
style  of  the  story  had  the  music  of  waves. 
How  happy  we  shall  be  to  reach  a  land  where 
there  is  no  work,  nor  tempest,  nor  pain,  and 
we  shall  be  forever  happy." 

"  I  am  content  here,"  said  a  laughing- 
youth,  with  heavily  matted  curls.  "  What 
can  be  better  than  this?  We  feel  every 
climate,  the  music  and  the  perfume  of  every 
zone,  are  ours.  In  the  starlight  I  woo  the 
mermaids,  as  I  lean  over  the  side,  and  no  en- 
chanted island  will  show  us  fairer  forms.  I 
am  satisfied.  The  ship  sails  on.  We  cannot 
see,  but  we  can  dream.  What  work  or  pain- 
have  we  here  ?  I  like  the  ship ;  I  like  the  voy- 
age ;  I  like  my  company,  and  am  content." 

As  he  spoke  he  put  something  into  his 
mouth,  and  drawing  a  white  substance  from 


37°  PRUE    AND    I. 

his  pocket,  offered  it  to  his  neighbor,  saying, 
"  Try  a  bit  of  this  lotus ;  you  will  find  it  very 
.soothing  to  the  nerves,  and  an  infallible 
remedy  for  homesickness." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  M.  le  Baron  Munchau- 
.sen,  "  I  have  no  fear.  The  arrangements  are 
well  made;  the  voyage  has  been  perfectly 
planned,  and  each  passenger  will  discover 
what  he  took  passage  to  find,  in  the  Hole  into 
which  we  are  going,  under  the  auspices  of  this 
worthy  captain." 

He  ceased,  and  silence  fell  upon  the  ship's 
•company.  Still  on  we  swept;  it  seemed  a 
weary  way.  The  tireless  pedestrians  still 
paced  to  and  fro,  and  the  idle  smokers  puffed. 
The  ship  sailed  on,  and  endless  music,  and 
odor  chased  each  other  through  the  misty  air. 
Suddenly  a  deep  sigh  drew  universal  attention 
to  a  person  who  had  not  yet  spoken.  He  held 
a  broken  harp  in  his  hand,  the  strings  fluttered 
loosely  in  the  air,  and  the  head  of  the  speaker, 
bound  with  a  withered  wreath  of  laurels,  bent 
over  it. 

"  No,  no,"  said  he,  "  I  will  not  eat  your 
lotus,  nor  sail  into  the  Hole.  No  magic  root 
can  cure  the  homesickness  I  feel;  for  it  is  no 
regretful  remembrance,  but  an  immortal  long- 
ing. I  have  roamed  farther  than  I  thought 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.      172 

the  earth  extended.  I  have  climbed  moun- 
tains; I  have  threaded  rivers;  I  have  sailed: 
seas ;  but  nowhere  have  I  seen  the  home  for 
which  my  heart  aches.  Ah,  my  friends !  you, 
look  very  weary ;  let  us  go  home." 

The  pedestrian  paused  a  moment  in  his. 
walk,  and  the  smokers  took  their  pipes  from, 
their  mouths.  The  soft  air  which  blew  in 
that  moment  across  the  deck,  drew  a  low 
sound  from  the  broken  harp  strings,  and  ar. 
light  shone  in  the  eyes  of  the  old  man  of  the 
figurehead,  as  if  the  mist  had  lifted  for  an  in- 
stant, and  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  lost 
Atlantis. 

"  I  really  believe  that  is  where  I  wish  to* 
go,"  said  the  seeker  of  the  fountain  of  youth. 
"  I  think  I  would  give  up  drinking  at  the- 
fountain  if  I  could  get  there.  I  do  not  know,"' 
he  murmured,  doubtfully ;  "  it  is  not  sure ;  I 
mean,  perhaps,  I  should  not  have  strength  to- 
get  to  the  fountain,  even  if  I  were  near  it." 

"  But  is  it  possible  to  get  home?  "  inquired 
the  pale  young  man.  "  I  think  I  should  be- 
resigned  if  I  could  get  home." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  dry,  hard  voice  of 
Prester  John's  confessor,  as  his  cowl  fell  a- 
little  back,  and  a  sudden  flush  burned  upon- 
his  gaunt  face ;  "  if  there  is  any  chance  of 


172  PRUE    AND    I. 

liome,  I  will  give  up  the  bishop's  palace  in 
Central  Africa." 

"  But  Eldorado  is  my  home,"  interposed  the 
•old  Alchemist. 

"Or  is  home  Eldorado?"  asked  the  poet 
with  the  withered  wreath,  turning  toward  the 
Alchemist. 

It  was  a  strange  company  and  a  wondrous 
voyage.  Here  were  all  kinds  of  men,  of  all 
times  and  countries,  pursuing  the  wildest 
hopes,  the  most  chimerical  desires.  One  took 
me  aside  to  request  that  I  would  not  let  it  be 
known,  but  that  he  inferred  from  certain  signs 
-we  were  nearing  Utopia.  Another  whispered 
gayly  in  my  ear  that  he  thought  the  water  was 
gradually  becoming  of  a  ruby  color — the  hue 
of  wine ;  and  he  had  no  doubt  we  should  wake 
in  the  morning  and  find  ourselves  in  the  land 
•of  Cockaigne.  A  third,  in  great  anxiety, 
•stated  to  me  that  such  continuous  mists  were 
unknown  upon  the  ocean ;  that  they  were  pecu- 
liar to  rivers,  and  that,  beyond  question,  we 
were  drifting  along  some  stream,  probably  the 
Nile,  and  immediate  measures  ought  to  be 
taken  that  we  did  not  go  ashore  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountains  of  the  moon.  Others  were 
-quite  sure  that  we  were  in  the  way  of  striking 
the  great  continent;  and  a  young  man,  who 


A    CRUISE    IN    THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.       173 

gave  his  name  as  Wilkins,  said  we  might  be 
quite  at  ease,  for  presently  some  friends  of  hi& 
would  come  flying  over  from  the  neighboring 
islands  and  tell  us  all  we  wished. 

Still  I  smelled  the  moldy  rigging,  and  the 
odor  of  cabbage  was  strong  from  the  hold. 

0  Prue,  what  could  the  ship  be,  in  which, 
such  fantastic  characters  were  sailing  toward 
impossible  bournes — characters  which  in  every 
age  have  ventured  all  the  bright  capital  of  life 
in  vague  speculations  and  romantic  dreams?' 
What  could  it  be  but  the  ship  that  haunts  the 
sea  forever,  and,  with  all  sails  set,  drives  on- 
ward before  a  ceaseless  gale,  and  is  not  hailed,, 
nor  ever  comes  to  port? 

1  know  the  ship  is  always  full ;  I  know  the 
graybeard  still  watches  at  the  prow  for  the 
lost  Atlantis,  and  still  the  Alchemist  believes- 
that  Eldorado  is  at  hand.     Upon  his  aimless- 
quest,  the  dotard  still  asks  where  he  is  going,, 
and  the  pale  youth  knows  that  he  shall  never 
fly  himself.     Yet  they  would  gladly  renounce 
that  wild  chase  and  the  dear  dreams  of  years, 
could  they  find  what  I  have  never  lost.     They 
were  ready  to  follow  the  poet  home,  if  he 
would  have  told  them  where  it  lay. 

I  know  where  it  lies.     I  breathe  the  soft  air 
of  the  purple  uplands  which  they  shall  never 


174  PRUE    AND    I. 

tread.  I  hear  the  sweet  music  of  the  voices 
they  long  for  in  vain.  I  am  no  traveler;  my 
only  voyage  is  to  the  office  and  home  again. 
William  and  Christopher,  John  and  Charles 
sail  to  Europe  and  the  South,  but  I  defy  their 
romantic  distances.  When  the  spring  comes 
and  the  flowers  blow,  I  drift  through  the  year 
belted  with  summer  and  with  spice. 

With  the  changing  months  I  keep  high  car- 
nival in  all  the  zones.  I  sit  at  home  and  walk 
with  Prue,  and  if  the  sun  that  stirs  the  sap 
quickens  also  the  wish  to  wander,  I  remember 
my  fellow  voyagers  on  that  romantic  craft, 
.and  looking  round  upon  my  peaceful  room, 
and  pressing  more  closely  the  arm  of  Prue,  I 
feel  that  I  have  reached  the  port  for  which 
they  hopelessly  sailed.  And  when  winds  blow 
fiercely  and  the  night  storm  rages,  and  the 
thought  of  lost  mariners  and  of  perilous 
voyages  touches  the  soft  heart  of  Prue,  I  hear 
a  voice  sweeter  to  my  ear  than  that  of  the 
sirens  to  the  tempest-tossed  sailor :  "  Thank 
•God !  Your  only  cruising  is  1>n  the  Flying 
.Dutchman!" 


FAMILY  PORTRAITS. 

*'  Look  here  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this." 

—Hamlet. 

WE  have  no  family  pictures,  Prue  and  I; 
only  a  portrait  of  my  grandmother  hangs  upon 
our  parlor  wall.  It  was  taken  at  least  a  cen- 
tury ago,  and  represents  the  venerable  lady, 
whom  I  remember  in  my  childhood  in  spec- 
tacles and  comely  cap,  as  a  young  and  bloom- 
ing girl. 

She  is  sitting  upon  an  old-fashioned  sofa, 
by  the  side  of  a  prim  aunt  of  hers,  and  with 
"her  back  to  the  open  window.  Her  costume 
is  quaint,  but  handsome.  It  consists  of  a 
cream-colored  dress  made  high  in  the  throat, 
ruffled  around  the  neck,  and  over  the  bosom 
and  the  shoulders.  The  waist  is  just  under 
her  shoulders,  and  the  sleeves  are  tight,  tighter 
than  any  of  our  coat  sleeves,  and  also  ruffled 
at  the  wrist.  Around  the  plump  and  rosy 
neck,  which  I  remember  as  shriveled  and  sal- 
low, and  hidden  under  a  decent  lace  handker- 
chief, hangs,  in  the  picture,  a  necklace  of  large 
175 


176  PRUE    AND    I. 

ebony  beads.  There  are  two  curls  upon  the 
forehead,  and  the  rest  of  the  hair  flows  away 
in  ringlets  down  the  neck. 

The  hands  hold  an  open  book ;  the  eyes  look 
up  from  it  with  tranquil  sweetness,  and, 
through  the  open  window  behind,  you  see  a 
quiet  landscape — a  hill,  a  tree,  the  glimpse  of 
a  river,  and  a  few  peaceful  summer  clouds. 

Often  in  my  younger  days,  when  my  grand- 
mother sat  by  the  fire  after  dinner,  lost  in 
thought — perhaps  remembering  the  time  when 
the  picture  was  feally  a  portrait — I  have  curi- 
ously compared  her  wasted  face  with  the 
blooming  beauty  of  the  girl,  and  tried  to  de- 
tect a  likeness.  It  was  strange  how  the  re- 
semblance would  sometimes  start  out ;  how, 
as  I  gazed  and  gazed  upon  her  old  face,  age 
disappeared  before  my  eager  glance,  as  snow 
melts  in  the  sunshine,  revealing  the  flowers 
of  a  forgotten  spring. 

It  was  touching  to  see  my  grandmother  steal 
quietly  up  to  her  portrait,  on  still  summer 
mornings  when  everyone  had  left  the  house 
— and  I,  the  only  child,  played,  disregarded — 
and  look  at  it  wistfully  and  long. 

She  held  her  hand  over  her  eyes  to  shade 
them  from  the  light  that  streamed  in  at  the 
window,  and  I  have  seen  her  stand  at  least  a 


FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  177 

quarter  of  an  hour  gazing  steadfastly  at  the 
picture.  She  said  nothing,  she  made  no 
motion,  she  shed  no  tear,  but  when  she  turned 
away  there  was  always  a  pensive  sweetness  in 
her  face  that  made  it  not  less  lovely  than  the 
face  of  her  youth. 

I  have  learned  since,  what  her  thoughts 
must  have  been — how  that  long,  wistful  glance 
annihilated  time  and  space,  how  forms  and 
faces  unknown  to  any  other,  rose  in  sudden 
resurrection  around  her — how  she  loved,  suf- 
fered, struggled  and  conquered  again;  how 
many  a  jest  that  I  shall  never  hear,  how  many 
a  game  that  I  shall  never  play,  how  many  a 
song  that  I  shall  never  sing,  were  all  renewed 
and  remembered  as  my  grandmother  contem- 
plated her  picture. 

I  often  stand,  as  she  stood,  gating  earnestly 
at  the  picture,  so  long  and  so  silently,  that 
Prue  looks  up  from  her  work  and  says  she 
shall  be  jealous  of  that  beautiful  belle,  my 
grandmother,  who  yet  makes  her  think  more 
kindly  of  those  remote  old  times. 

"  Yes,  Prue,  and  that  is  the  charm  of  a 
family  portrait." 

"  Yes,  again ;  but,"  says  Titbottom  when  he 
hears  the  remark,  "  how  if  one's  grandmother 
were  a  shrew,  a  termagant,  a  virago  ?  " 


178  PRUE   AND   L 

"  Ah !  in  that  case — "  I  am  compelled  ta 
say,  while  Prue  looks  up  again,  half  archly, 
and  I  add  gravely — "  you,  for  instance,  Prue." 

Then  Titbottom  smiles  one  of  his  sad  smiles, 
and  we  change  the  subject. 

Yet,  I  am  always  glad  when  Minim  Sculpin,, 
our  neighbor,  who  knows  that  my  opportu- 
nities are  few,  comes  to  ask  me  to  step  round 
and  see  the  family  portraits. 

The  Sculpins,  I  think,  are  a  very  old  family. 
Titbottom  says  they  date  from  the  deluge., 
But  I  thought  people  of  English  descent  pre- 
ferred to  stop  with  William  the  Conqueror,, 
who  came  from  France. 

Before  going  with  Minim,  I  always  fortify 
myself  with  a  glance  at  the  great  family 
Bible,  in  which  Adam,  Eve,  and  the  patriarchs, 
are  indifferently  well  represented. 

"  Those  are  the  ancestors  of  the  Howards,, 
the  Plantagenets,  and  the  Montmorencis,"  says 
Prue,  surprising  me  with  her  erudition. 
"  Have  you  any  remoter  ancestry,  Mr.  Scul- 
pin  ?  "  she  asks  Minim,  who  only  smiles  com- 
passionately upon  the  dear  woman,  while  I 
am  buttoning  my  coat. 

Then  we  step  along  the  street,  and  I  am  con- 
scious of  trembling  a  little,  for  I  feel  as  if  I 


FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  179 

were  going  to  court.  Suddenly  we  are  stand- 
ing before  the  range  of  portraits. 

"  This,"  says  Minim,  with  unction,  "  is 
Sir  Solomon  Sculpin,  the  founder  of  the 
family." 

"  Famous  for  what  ?  "  I  ask  respectfully. 

"  For  founding  the  family,"  replies  Minim 
gravely,  and  I  have  sometimes  thought  a  little 
severely. 

"  This,"  he  says,  pointing  to  a  dame  in 
hoops  and  diamond  stomacher,  "  this  is  Lady 
Sheba  Sculpin." 

"  Ah,  yes!     Famous  for  what?"  I  inquire. 

"  For  being  the  wife  of  Sir  Solomon." 

Then,  in  order,  comes  a  gentleman  in  a  huge 
curling  wig,  looking  indifferently  like  James 
the  Second,  or  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  and  hold- 
ing a  scroll  in  his  hand. 

"  The  Right  Honorable  Haddock  Sculpin, 
Lord  Privy  Seal,  etc.,  etc." 

A  delicate  beauty  hangs  between,  a  face  fair, 
and  loved,  and  lost  centuries  ago — a  song  to 
the  eye — a  poem  to  the  heart — the  Aurelia  of 
that  old  society. 

"  Lady  Dorothea  Sculpin,  who  married 
young  Lord  Pop  and  Cock,  and  died  prema- 
turely in  Italy." 


l8o  PRUE    AND   I. 

Poor  Lady  Dorothea!  whofee  great-grand- 
child, in  the  tenth  remove,  dkcf  last  week,  an 
old  man  of  eighty. 

Next  the  gentle  lady  hangs  a  fierce  figure, 
flourishing  a  sword,  with  an  anchor  em- 
broidered on  his  coat-collar,  and  thunder  and 
lightning,  sinking  ships,  flames  and  tornadoes 
in  the  background. 

"  Rear  Admiral  Sir  Shark  Sculpin,  who 
fell  in  the  great  action  off  Madagascar." 

So  Minim  goes  on  through  the  series,  brand- 
ishing his  ancestors  about  my  head,  and  in- 
continently knocking  me  into  admiration. 

And  when  we  reach  the  last  portrait  and 
our  own  times,  what  is  the  natural  emotion? 
Is  it  not  to  put  Minim  against  the  wall,  draw 
off  at  him  with  my  eyes  and  mind,  scan  himr 
and  consider  his  life,  and  determine  how  much 
of  the  Right  Honorable  Haddock's  integrity, 
and  the  Lady  Dorothea's  loveliness,  and  the 
Admiral  Shark's  valor,  reappears  in  the 
modern  man?  After  all  this  proving  and 
refining,  ought  not  the  last  child  of  a  famous 
race  to  be  its  flower  and  epitome  ?  Or,  in  the 
case  that  he  does  not  chance  to  be  so,  is  it  not 
better  to  conceal  the  family  name? 

I  am  told,  however,  that  in  the  higher  circles 
of  society,  it  is  better  not  to  conceal  the  name, 


FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  l8l 

however  unworthy  the  man  or  woman  may  be 
who  bears  it.  Prue  once  remonstrated  with  a 
lady  about  the  marriage  of  a  lovely  young  girl 
with  a  cousin  of  Minim's;  but  the  only  an- 
swer she  received  was,  "  Well,  he  may  not  be 
a.  perfect  man,  but  then  he  is  a  Sculpin,"  which 
consideration  apparently  gave  great  comfort 
to  the  lady's  mind. 

But  even  Prue  grants  that  Minim  has  some 
reason  for  his  pride.  Sir  Solomon  was  a  re- 
spectable man,  and  Sir  Shark  a  brave  one ;  and 
the  Right  Honorable  Haddock  a  learned  one; 
the  Lady  Sheba  was  grave  and  gracious  in  her 
way ;  and  the  smile  of  the  fair  Dorothea  lights 
with  soft  sunlight  those  long-gone  summers. 
The  filial  blood  rushes  more  gladly  from 
Minim's  heart  as  he  gazes ;  and  admiration 
for  the  virtues  of  his  kindred  inspires  and 
sweetly  mingles  with  good  resolutions  of  his 
own. 

Time  has  its  share,  too,  in  the  ministry,  and 
the  influence.  The  halls  beyond  the  river  lay 
yesterday,  at  sunset,  lost  in  purple  gloom ;  they 
receded  into  airy  distances  of  dreams  and 
faery;  they  sank  softly  into  night,  the  peaks 
of  the  Delectable  Mountains.  But  I  knew,  as 
I  gazed  enchanted,  that  the  hills,  so  purple- 
soft  of  seeming,  were  hard,  and  gray,  and 


l82  PRUE    AND    I. 

barren  in  the  wintry  twilight;  and  that  in 
the  distance  was  the  magic  that  made  them 
fair. 

So,  beyond  the  river  of  time  that  flows  be- 
tween, walk  the  brave  men  and  the  beautiful 
women  of  our  ancestry,  grouped  in  twilight 
upon  the  shore.  Distance  smooths  away  de- 
fects, and,  with  gentle  darkness,  rounds  every 
form  into  grace.  It  steals  the  harshness  from 
their  speech,  and  every  word  becomes  a  song. 
Far  across  the  gulf  that  ever  widens,  they 
look  upon  us  with  eyes  whose  glance  is  tender, 
and  which  light  us  to  success.  We  acknowl- 
edge our  inheritance;  we  accept  our  birth- 
right ;  we  own  that  their  careers  have  pledged 
us  to  noble  action.  Every  great  life  is  an  in- 
centive to  all  other  lives;  but  when  the  brave 
heart,  that  beats  for  the  world,  loves  us  with 
the  warmth  of  private  affection,  then  the  ex- 
ample of  heroism  is  more  persuasive,  because 
more  personal. 

This  is  the  true  pride  of  ancestry.  It  is 
founded  in  the  tenderness  with  which  the 
child  regards  the  father,  and  in  the  romance 
that  time  sheds  upon  history. 

"  Where  be  all  the  bad  people  buried  ?  "  asks 
every  man,  with  Charles  Lamb,  as  he  strolls 
among  the  rank  graveyard  grass,  and  brushes 


FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  ij, 

It  aside  to  read  of  the  faithful  husband,  and 
the  loving  wife,  and  the  dutiful  child. 

He  finds  only  praise  in  the  epitaphs,  because 
the  human  heart  is  kind;  because  it  yearns 
with  wistful  tenderness  after  all  its  brethren 
who  have  passed  into  the  cloud,  and  will  only 
speak  well  of  the  departed.  No  offense  is 
longer  an  offense  when  the  grass  is  green  over 
the  offender.  Even  faults  then  seem  charac- 
teristic and  individual.  Even  Justice  is  ap- 
peased when  the  drop  falls.  How  the  old 
stories  and  plays  teem  with  the  incident  of  the 
duel  in  which  one  gentleman  falls,  and,  in 
dying,  forgives  and  is  forgiven.  We  turn  the- 
page  with  a  tear.  How  much  better  had  there- 
been  no  offense,  but  how  well  that  death  wipes; 
it  out ! 

It  is  not  observed  in  history  that  families 
improve  with  time.  It  is  rather  discovered 
that  the  whole  matter  is  like  a  comet,  of  which 
the  brightest  part  is  the  head;  and  the  tail, 
although  long  and  luminous,  is  gradually 
shaded  into  obscurity. 

Yet,  by  a  singular  compensation,  the  pride 
of  ancestry  increases  in  the  ratio  of  distance, 
Adam  was  valiant,  and  did  so  well  at  Poictiers 
that  he  was  knighted — a  hearty,  homely  coun- 
try gentleman,  who  lived  humbly  to  the  end. 


184  PRUE    AND    I. 

But  young  Lucifer,  his  representatire  in  the 
twentieth  remove,  has  a  tinder-like  conceit 
because  old  Sir  Adam  was  so  brave  and  hum- 
ble. Sir  Adam's  sword  is  hung  up  at  home, 
and  Lucifer  has  a  box  at  the  opera.  On  a  thin 
finger  he  has  a  ring,  cut  with  a  match  fizzling, 
the  crest  of  the  Lucifers.  But  if  he  should 
be  at  a  Poictiers,  he  would  run  away.  Then 
history  would  be  sorry — not  only  for  his 
cowardice  but  for  the  shame  it  brings  upon 
old  Adam's  name. 

So,  if  Minim  Sculpin  is  a  bad  young  man, 
he  not  only  shames  himself,  but  he  disgraces 
that  illustrious  line  of  ancestors,  whose  char- 
acters are  known.  His  neighbor  Mudge  has 
no  pedigree  of  this  kind,  and  when  he  reels 
homeward,  we  do  not  suffer  the  sorrow  of  any 
fair  Lady  Dorothea  in  such  a  descendant — we 
pity  him  for  himself  alone.  But  genius  and 
power  are  so  imperial  and  universal,  that  when 
Minim  Sculpin  falls,  we  are  grieved  not  only 
for  him,  but  for  that  eternal  truth  and  beauty 
which  appeared  in  the  valor  of  Sir  Shark,  and 
the  loveliness  of  Lady  Dorothea.  His  neigh- 
bor Mudge's  grandfather  may  have  been  quite 
as  valorous  and  virtuous  as  Sculpin's ;  but  we 
know  of  the  one,  and  we  do  not  know  of  the 
other. 


FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  185 

Therefore,  Prue,  I  say  to  my  wife,  who  has, 
by  this  time,  fallen  as  soundly  asleep  as  if  I 
had  been  preaching  a  real  sermon,  do  not  let 
Mrs.  Mudge  feel  hurt,  because  I  gaze  so  long 
and  earnestly  upon  the  portrait  of  the  fair 
Lady  Sculpin,  and,  lost  in  dreams,  mingle  in  a 
society  which  distance  and  poetry  immortalize. 

But  let  the  love  of  the  family  portraits  be- 
long to  poetry  and  not  to  politics.  It  is  good 
in  the  one  way,  and  bad  in  the  other. 

The  sentiment  of  ancestral  pride  is  an  integ- 
ral part  of  human  nature.  Its  organisation 
in  institutions  is  the  real  object  of  enmity  to  all 
sensible  men,  because  it  is  a  direct  preference 
of  derived  to  original  power,  implying  a  doubt 
that  the  world  at  every  period  is  able  to  take 
care  of  itself. 

The  family  portraits  have  a  poetic  signifi- 
cance; but  he  is  a  brave  child  of  the  family 
who  dares  to  show  them.  They  all  sit  in 
passionless  and  austere  judgment  upon  him- 
self. Let  him  not  invite  us  to  see  them,  until 
he  has  considered  whether  they  are  honored 
or  disgraced  by  his  own  career — until  he  has 
looked  in  the  glass  of  his  own  thought  and 
scanned  his  own  proportions. 

The  family  portraits  are  like  a  woman's 
diamonds ;  they  may  flash  finely  enough  before 


l86  PRUE    AND    I. 

the  world,  but  she  herself  trembles  lest  their 
luster  eclipse  her  eyes.  It  is  difficult  to  resist 
the  tendency  to  depend  upon  those  portraits, 
and  to  enjoy  vicariously  through  them  a  high 
consideration.  But,  after  all,  what  girl  is 
complimented  when  you  curiously  regard  her 
because  her  mother  was  beautiful  ?  What  at- 
tenuated consumptive,  in  whom  self-respect  is 
yet  unconsumed,  delights  in  your  respect  for 
him,  founded  in  honor  of  his  stalwart  ances- 
tor? 

No  man  worthy  of  the  name  rejoices  in  any 
homage  which  his  own  efforts  and  character 
have  not  deserved.  You  intrinsically  insult 
him  when  you  make  him  the  scapegoat  of  your 
admiration  for  his  ancestor.  But  when  his 
ancestor  is  his  accessory,  then  your  homage 
would  flatter  Jupiter.  All  that  Minim  Sculpin 
does  by  his  own  talent  is  the  more  radiantly 
set  and  ornamented  by  the  family  fame.  The 
imagination  is  pleased  when  Lord  John  Rus- 
sell is  Premier  of  England  and  a  whig,  because 
the  great  Lord  William  Russell,  his  ancestor, 
<died  in  England  for  liberty. 

In  the  same  way  Minim's  sister  Sara  adds 
to  her  own  grace  the  sweet  memory  of  the 
Lady  Dorothea.  When  she  glides,  a  sun- 
beam, through  that  quiet  house,  and  in  winter 


FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  l8j 

makes  summer  by  her  presence ;  when  she  sits 
at  the  piano,  singing  in  the  twilight,  or  stands 
leaning  against  the  Venus  in  the  corner  of  the 
room — herself  more  graceful — then,  in  glanc- 
ing from  her  to  the  portrait  of  the  gentle 
Dorothea,  you  feel  that  the  long  years  between 
them  have  been  lighted  by  the  same  sparkling 
grace,  and  shadowed  by  the  same  pensive 
smile — for  this  is  but  one  Sara  and  one  Doro- 
thea, out  of  all  that  there  are  in  the  world. 

As  we  look  at  these  two,  we  must  own  that 
noblesse  oblige  in  a  sense  sweeter  than  we 
knew,  and  be  glad  when  young  Sculpin  invites 
us  to  see  the  family  portraits.  Could  a  man 
be  named  Sidney,  and  not  be  a  better  man,  or 
Milton,  and  be  a  churl  ? 

But  it  is  apart  from  any  historical  associa- 
tion that  I  like  to  look  at  the  family  portraits. 
The  Sculpins  were  very  distinguished  heroes, 
and  judges,  and  founders  of  families ;  but  I 
chiefly  linger  upon  their  pictures,  because  they 
were  men  and  women.  Their  portraits  re- 
move the  vagueness  from  history,  and  give  it 
reality.  Ancient  valor  and  beauty  cease  to 
be  names  and  poetic  myths,  and  become  facts. 
I  feel  that  they  lived,  and  loved,  and  suffered 
in  those  old  days.  The  story  of  their  lives  is 
instantly  full  of  human  sympathy  in  my  mindr 


l88  PRUE    AND   I. 

and  I  judge  them  more  gently,  more  gener- 
ously. 

Then  I  look  at  those  of  us  who  are  the  spec- 
tators of  the  portraits.  I  know  that  we  are 
made  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood,  that  time  is 
preparing  us  to  be  placed  in  his  cabinet  and 
upon  canvas,  to  be  curiously  studied  by  the 
grandchildren  of  unborn  Prues.  I  put  out 
my  hands  to  grasp  those  of  my  fellows  around 
the  pictures.  "  Ah,  friends !  we  live  not  only 
for  ourselves.  Those  whom  we  shall  never 
see,  will  look  to  us  as  models,  as  counselors. 
We  shall  be  speechless  then.  We  shall  only 
look  at  them  from  the  canvas,  and  cheer  or 
discourage  them  by  their  idea  of  our  lives  and 
ourselves.  Let  us  so  look  in  the  portrait,  that 
they  shall  love  our  memories — that  they  shall 
say  in  turn,  '  they  were  kind  and  thoughtful, 
those  queer  old  ancestors  of  ours;  let  us  not 
disgrace  them.' ' 

If  they  only  recognize  us  as  men  and  women 
like  themselves,  they  will  be  the  better  for  it, 
and  the  family  portraits  will  be  family  bless- 
ings. 

This  is  what  my  grandmother  did.  She 
looked  at  her  own  portrait,  at  the  portrait  of 
her  youth,  with  much  the  same  feeling  that  I 
remember  Prue  as  she  was  when  I  first  saw 


FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  189 

her;  with  much  the  same  feeling  that  I  hope 
our  grandchildren  will  remember  us. 

Upon  those  still  summer  mornings,  though 
she  stood  withered  and  wan  in  a  plain  black 
silk  gown,  a  close  cap,  and  spectacles,  and  held 
her  shrunken  and  blue-veined  hand  to  shield 
her  eyes,  yet,  as  she  gazed  with  that  long  and 
longing  glance,  upon  the  blooming  beauty 
that  had  faded  from  her  form  forever,  she  rec- 
ognized under  that  flowing  hair  and  that  rosy 
cheek — the  immortal  fashions  of  youth  and 
health — and  beneath  those  many  ruffles  and 
that  quaint  high  waist,  the  fashions  of  the  day 
— the  same  true  and  loving  woman.  If  her 
face  was  pensive  as  she  turned  away  it  was 
because  truth  and  love  are,  in  their  essence, 
forever  young,  and  it  is  the  hard  condition  of 
nature  that  they  cannot  always  appear  so. 


OUR  COUSIN  THE  CURATE. 

"  Why,  let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep, 

The  hart  ungalled  play; 
For  some  must  watch  while  some  must  sleep; 
Thus  runs  the  world  away." 

PRUE  and  I  have  very  few  relations :  Pruey 
especially,  says  that  she  never  had  any  but  her 
parents,  and  that  she  has  none  now  but  her 
children.  She  often  wishes  she  had  some 
large  aunt  in  the  country,  who  might  come 
in  unexpectedly  with  bags  and  bundles,  and 
encamp  in  our  little  house  for  a  whole  winter. 

"  Because  you  are  tired  of  me,  I  suppose, 
Mrs.  Prue  ?  "  I  reply  with  dignity,  when  she 
alludes  to  the  imaginary  large  aunt. 

"  You  could  take  aunt  to  the  opera,  you 
know,  and  walk  with  her  on  Sundays,"  says 
Prue,  as  she  knits  and  calmly  looks  me  in  the 
face,  without  recognizing  my  observation. 

Then  I  tell  Prue  in  the  plainest  possible 

manner  that  if  her  large  aunt  should  come  up 

from  the  country  to  pass  the  winter,  I  should 

insist  upon  her  bringing  her  eldest  daughter, 

190 


OUR   COUSIN    THE    CURATE.  IQI 

•with  whom  I  would  flirt  so  desperately  that 
the  street  would  be  scandalized,  and  even  the 
corner  grocery  should  gossip  over  the  ini- 
quity. 

"  Poor  Prue,  how  I  should  pity  you,"  I  say 
triumphantly  to  my  wife. 

"  Poor  oldest  daughter,  how  I  should  pity 
her,"  replies  Prue,  placidly  counting  her 
stitches. 

So  the  happy  evening  passes,  as  we  gayly 
mock  each  other,  and  wonder  how  old  the 
large  aunt  should  be,  and  how  many  bundles 
she  ought  to  bring  with  her. 

"  I  would  have  her  arrive  by  the  late  train 
at  midnight,"  says  Prue ;  "  and  when  she  had 
eaten  some  supper  and  had  gone  to  her  room, 
she  should  discover  that  she  had  left  the  most 
precious  bundle  of  all  in  the  cars,  without 
whose  contents  she  could  not  sleep,  nor  dress, 
and  you  would  start  to  hunt  for  it." 

And  the  needle  clicks  faster  than  ever. 

"  Yes,  and  when  I  am  gone  to  the  office  in 
the  morning,  and  am  busy  about  important  af- 
fairs— yes,  Mrs.  Prue,  important  affairs,"  I 
insist,  as  my  wife  half-raises  her  head  incredu- 
lously— "  then  our  large  aunt  from  the  country 
would  like  to  go  shopping,  and  would  want 
you  for  her  escort.  And  she  would  cheapen 


192  PRUE    AND   I. 

tape  at  all  the  shops,  and  even  to  the  great 
Stewart  himself,  she  would  offer  a  shilling  less 
for  the  gloves.  Then  the  comely  clerks  of  the 
great  Stewart  would  look  at  you,  with  their 
brows  lifted,  as  if  they  said,  Mrs.  Prue,  your 
large  aunt  had  better  stay  in  the  country." 

And  the  needle  clicks  more  slowly,  as  if  the 
tune  were  changing. 

The  large  aunt  will  never  come,  I  know; 
nor  shall  I  ever  flirt  with  the  oldest  daughter. 
I  should  like  to  believe  that  our  little  house 
will  teem  with  aunts  and  cousins  when  Prue 
and  I  are  gone ;  but  how  can  I  believe  it,  when 
there  is  a  milliner  within  three  doors  and  a 
hairdresser  combs  his  wigs  in  the  late  dining 
room  of  my  opposite  neighbor?  The  large 
aunt  from  the  country  is  entirely  impossible,, 
and  as  Prue  feels  it,  and  I  feel  it,  the  needles 
seem  to  click  a  dirge  for  that  late  lamented 
lady. 

"  But  at  least  we  have  one  relative,  Prue." 

The  needles  stop ;  only  the  clock  ticks  upon 
the  mantel  to  remind  us  how  ceaselessly  the 
stream  of  time  flows  on  that  bears  us  away 
from  our  cousin  the  curate. 

When  Prue  and  I  are  most  cheerful,  and 
the  world  looks  fair — we  talk  of  our  cousin 
the  curate.  When  the  world  seems  a  little 


OUR    COUSIN    THE    CURATE.  193 

cloudy,  and  we  remember  that  though  we  have 
lived  and  loved  together,  we  may  not  die  to- 
gether— we  talk  of  our  cousin  the  curate. 
When  we  plan  little  plans  for  the  boys  and 
dream  dreams  for  the  girls — we  talk  of  our 
cousin  the  curate.  When  I  tell  Prue  of 
Aurelia,  whose  character  is  every  day  lovelier 
— we  talk  of  our  cousin  the  curate.  There  is 
no  subject  which  does  not  seem  to  lead  natur- 
ally to  our  cousin  the  curate.  As  the  soft  air 
steals  in  and  envelops  everything  in  the 
world,  so  that  the  trees,  and  the  hills,  and  the 
rivers,  the  cities,  the  crops,  and  the  sea  are 
made  remote,  and  delicate,  and  beautiful,  by 
its  pure  baptism,  so  over  all  the  events  of  our 
little  lives,  comforting,  refining,  and  elevating, 
falls  like  a  benediction  the  remembrance  of 
our  cousin  the  curate. 

He  was  my  only  early  companion.  He  had 
no  brother,  I  had  none;  and  we  became 
brothers  to  each  other.  He  was  always  beau- 
tiful. His  face  was  symmetrical  and  delicate ; 
his  figure  was  slight  and  graceful.  He  looked 
as  the  sons  of  kings  ought  to  look:  as  I  am 
sure  Philip  Sidney  looked  when  he  was  a  boy. 
His  eyes  were  blue,  and  as  you  looked  at  them, 
they  seemed  to  let  your  gaze  out  into  a  June 
heaven.  The  blood  ran  close  to  the  skin,  and 


194  PRUE    AND    I. 

his  complexion  had  the  rich  transparency  of 
light.  There  was  nothing  gross  or  heavy  in 
his  expression  or  texture ;  his  soul  seemed*  to 
have  mastered  his  body.  But  he  had  strong 
passions,  for  his  delicacy  was  positive,  not 
negative ;  it  was  not  weakness,  but  intensity. 

There  was  a  patch  of  ground  about  the 
house  which  we  tilled  as  a  garden.  I  was 
proud  of  my  morning-glories,  and  sweet  peas ; 
my  cousin  cultivated  roses.  One  day — and 
we  could  scarcely  have  been  more  than  six 
years  old — we  were  digging  merrily  and  talk- 
ing. Suddenly  there  was  some  kind  of  dif- 
ference; I  taunted  him,  and  raising  his  spade 
he  struck  me  upon  the  leg.  The  blow  was 
heavy  for  a  boy,  and  the  blood  trickled  from 
the  wound.  I  burst  into  indignant  tears,  and 
limped  toward  the  house.  My  cousin  turned 
pale  and  said  nothing,  but  just  as  I  opened  the 
door,  he  darted  by  me,  and  before  I  could  in- 
terrupt him,  he  had  confessed  his  crime,  and 
asked  for  punishment. 

From  that  day  he  conquered  himself.  He 
devoted  a  kind  of  ascetic  energy  to  subduing 
his  own  will,  and  I  remember  no  other  out- 
break. But  the  penalty  he  paid  for  conquer- 
ing his  will  was  a  loss  of  the  gushing  expres- 
sion of  feeling.  My  cousin  became  perfectly 


OUR   COUSIN    THE   CURATE.  195 

gentle  in  his  manner,  but  there  was  a  want  of 
that  pungent  excess  which  is  the  finest  flavor 
of  character.  His  views  were  moderate  and 
calm.  He  was  swept  away  by  no  boyish  ex- 
travagance, and,  even  while  I  wished  he  would 
sin  only  a  very  little,  I  still  adored  him  as  a 
saint.  The  truth  is,  as  I  tell  Prue,  I  am  so 
very  bad  because  I  have  to  sin  for  two — for 
myself  and  our  cousin  the  curate.  Often, 
when  I  returned  panting  and  restless  from 
some  frolic,  which  had  wasted  almost  all  the 
night,  I  was  rebuked  as  I  entered  the  room  in 
Avhich  he  lay  peacefully  sleeping.  There  was 
something  holy  in  the  profound  repose  of  his 
beauty,  and,  as  I  stood  looking  at  him,  how 
many  a  time  the  tears  have  dropped  from  my 
liot  eyes  upon  his  face,  while  I  vowed  to  make 
myself  worthy  of  such  a  companion,  for  I  felt 
my  heart  owning  its  allegiance  to  that  strong 
and  imperial  nature. 

My  cousin  was  loved  by  the  boys,  but  the 
girls  worshiped  him.  His  mind,  large  in 
grasp,  and  subtle  in  perception,  naturally  com- 
manded his  companions,  while  the  luster  of 
his  character  allured  those  who  could  not  un- 
derstand him.  The  asceticism  occasionally 
showed  itself  in  a  vein  of  hardness,  or  rather 
of  severity  in  his  treatment  of  others.  He 


196  PRUE    AND    I. 

did  what  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  do,  but  he 
forgot  that  few  could  see  the  right  so  clearly 
as  he,  and  very  few  of  those  few  could  so 
calmly  obey  the  least  command  of  conscience. 
I  confess  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  him,  for  I 
think  I  never  could  be  severe. 

In  the  long  winter  evenings  I  often  read  to 
Prue  the  story  of  some  old  father  of  the 
church,  or  some  quaint  poem  of  George  Her- 
bert's— and  every  Christmas  eve,  I  read  to  her 
Milton's  "  Hymn  of  the  Nativity."  Yety 
when  the  saint  seems  to  us  most  saintly,  or  the 
poem  most  pathetic  or  sublime,  we  find  our- 
selves talking  of  our  cousin  the  curate.  I  have 
not  seen  him  for  many  years ;  but,  when  we 
parted,  his  head  had  the  intellectual  symmetry 
of  Milton's,  without  the  puritanic  stoop,  and 
with  the  stately  grace  of  a  cavalier. 

Such  a  boy  has  premature  wisdom — he  lives 
and  suffers  prematurely. 

Prue  loves  to  listen  when  I  speak  of  the 
romance  of  his  life,  and  I  do  not  wonder.  For 
my  part,  I  find  in  the  best  romance  only  the 
story  of  my  love  for  her,  and  often  as  I  read 
to  her,  whenever  I  come  to  what  Titbottom 
calls  "  the  crying  part,"  if  I  lift  my  eyes  sud- 
denly, I  see  that  Prue's  eyes  are  fixed  on  me 
with  a  softer  light  by  reason  of  their  moisture. 


OUR    COUSIN    THE    CURATE.  197 

Our  cousin  the  curate  loved,  while  he  was 
yet  a  boy,  Flora,  of  the  sparkling  eyes  and  the 
ringing  voice.  His  devotion  was  absolute. 
Flora  was  flattered,  because  all  the  girls,  as  I 
said,  worshiped  him ;  but  she  was  a  gay,  glanc- 
ing girl,  who  had  invaded  the  student's  heart 
with  her  audacious  brilliancy,  and  was  half- 
surprised  that  she  had  subdued  it.  Our 
cousin — for  I  never  think  of  him  as  my  cousin, 
only — wasted  away  under  the  fervor  of  his 
passion.  His  life  exhaled  as  incense  before 
her.  He  wrote  poems  to  her,  and  sang  them 
under  her  window,  in  the  summer  moonlight. 
He  brought  her  flowers  and  precious  gifts. 
When  he  had  nothing  else  to  give,  he  gave  her 
his  love  in  a  homage  so  eloquent  and  beautiful 
that  the  worship  was  like  the  worship  of  the 
Wise  Men.  The  gay  Flora  was  proud  and 
superb.  She  was  a  girl,  and  the  bravest  and 
best  boy  loved  her.  She  was  young,  and  the 
wisest  and  truest  youth  loved  her.  They  lived 
together,  we  all  lived  together,  in  the  happy 
valley  of  childhood.  We  looked  forward  to 
manhood  as  island  poets  look  across  the  sea, 
believing  that  the  whole  world  beyond  is  a 
blest  Araby  of  spices. 

The  months  went  by,  and  the  young  love 
continued.  Our  cousin  and  Flora  were  only 


198  PRUE    AND    I. 

children  still,  and  there  was  no  engagement 
The  elders  looked  upon  the  intimacy  as  natural 
and  mutually  beneficial.  It  would  help  soften 
the  boy  and  strengthen  the  girl ;  and  they  took 
for  granted  that  softness  and  strength  were 
precisely  what  \vere  wanted.  It  is  a  great  pity 
that  men  and  women  forget  that  they  have 
been  children.  Parents  are  apt  to  be  foreign- 
ers to  their  sons  and  daughters.  Maturity  is 
the  gate  of  Paradise,  which  shuts  behind  us; 
and  our  memories  are  gradually  weaned  from 
the  glories  in  which  our  nativity  was  cradled. 

The  months  went  by,  the  children  grew 
older,  and  they  constantly  loved.  Now  Prue 
always  smiles  at  one  of  my  theories;  she  is 
entirely  skeptical  of  it;  but  it  is,  nevertheless, 
my  opinion  that  men  love  most  passionately, 
and  women  most  permanently.  Men  love  at 
first  and  most  warmly;  women  love  last  and 
longest.  This  is  natural  enough;  for  nature 
makes  women  to  be  won,  and  men  to  win. 
Men  are  the  active,  positive  force,  and  there- 
fore, they  are  more  ardent  and  demonstrative. 

I  can  never  get  further  than  that  in  my  phi- 
losophy, when  Prue  looks  at  me,  and  smiles  me 
into  skepticism  of  my  own  doctrines.  But 
they  are  true  notwithstanding. 

My  day  is  rather  past  for  such  speculations ; 


OUR    COUSIN    THE   CURATE.  199 

but  so  long  as  Aurelia  is  unmarried,  I  am 
sure  I  shall  indulge  myself  in  them.  I  have 
never  made  much  progress  in  the  philosophy 
of  love ;  in  fact,  I  can  only  be  sure  of  this  one 
cardinal  principle,  that  when  you  are  quite 
sure  two  people  cannot  be  in  love  with  each 
other,  because  there  is  no  earthly  reason  why 
they  should  be,  then  you  may  be  very  confi- 
dent that  you  are  wrong,  and  that  they  are  in. 
love,  for  the  secret  of  love  is  past  finding  out. 
Why  our  cousin  should  have  loved  the  gay 
Flora  so  ardently  was  hard  to  say ;  but  that  he 
did  so,  was  not  difficult  to  see. 

He  went  away  to  college.  He  wrote  the 
most  eloquent  and  passionate  letters;  and 
when  he  returned  in  vacations,  he  had  no  eyes,, 
ears,  nor  heart  for  any  other  being.  I  rarely 
saw  him,  for  I  was  living  away  from  our  early 
home,  and  was  busy  in  a  store — learning  to  be 
bookkeeper — but  I  heard  afterward  from  him- 
self the  whole  story. 

One  day  when  he  came  home  for  the  holi- 
days, he  found  a  young  foreigner  with  Flora. 
— a  handsome  youth,  brilliant  and  graceful. 
I  have  asked  Prue  a  thousand  times  why 
women  adore  soldiers  and  foreigners.  She 
says  it  is  because  they  love  heroism  and  are 
romantic.  A  soldier  is  professionally  a  hero, 


500  PRUE    AND    I. 

says  Prue,  and  a  foreigner  is  associated  with 
all  unknown  and  beautiful  regions.  I  hope 
there  is  no  worse  reason.  But  if  it  be  the  dis- 
tance which  is  romantic,  then  by  her  own  rule, 
the  mountain  which  looked  to  you  so  lovely 
when  you  saw  it  upon  the  horizon,  when  you 
stand  upon  its  rocky  and  barren  side,  has 
transmitted  its  romance  to  its  remotest  neigh- 
bor. I  cannot  but  admire  the  fancies  of  girls 
which  make  them  poets.  They  have  only  to 
look  upon  a  dull-eyed,  ignorant,  exhausted 
roue,  with  an  impudent  mustache,  and  they 
surrender  to  Italy,  to  the  tropics,  to  the  splen- 
dors of  nobility,  and  court  life — and 

"  Stop,"  says  Prue  gently ;  "  you  have  no 
right  to  say  '  girls  '  do  so,  because  some  poor 
victims  have  been  deluded.  Would  Aurelia 
surrender  to  a  blear-eyed  foreigner  in  a  mus- 
tache?" 

Prue  has  such  a  reasonable  way  of  putting 
these  things ! 

Our  .cousin  came  home  and  found  Flora 
and  the  young  foreigner  conversing.  The 
young  foreigner  had  large,  soft,  black  eyes, 
and  the  dusky  skin  of  the  tropics.  His  man- 
ner was  languid  and  fascinating,  courteous 
and  reserved.  It  assumed  a  natural  suprem- 
acy, and  you  felt  as  if  here  were  a  young 


OUR   COUSIN    THE   CURATE.  2OI 

prince  traveling  before  he  came  into  posses- 
sion of  his  realm. 

It  is  an  old  fable  that  love  is  blind.  But  I 
think  there  are  no  eyes  so  sharp  as  those  of 
lovers.  I  am  sure  there  is  not  a  shade  upon 
Prue's  brow  that  I  do  not  instantly  remark, 
nor  an  altered  tone  in  her  voice  that  I  do  not 
instantly  observe.  Do  you  suppose  Aurelia 
would  not  note  the  slightest  deviation  of  heart 
in  her  lover,  if  she  had  one?  Love  is  the 
coldest  of  critics.  To  be  in  love  is  to  live  in 
a  crisis,  and  the  very  imminence  of  uncer- 
tainty makes  the  lover  perfectly  self-possessed. 
His  eye  constantly  scours  the  horizon.  There 
is  no  footfall  so  light  that  it  does  not  thunder 
in  his  ear.  Love  is  tortured  by  the  tempest 
the  moment  the  cloud  of  a  hand's  size  rises 
out  of  the  sea.  It  foretells  its  own  doom; 
its  agony  is  past  before  its  sufferings  are 
known. 

Our  cousin  the  curate  no  sooner  saw  the 
tropical  stranger,  and  marked  his  impression 
upon  Flora,  than  he  felt  the  end.  As  the  shaft 
struck  his  heart,  his  smile  was  sweeter,  and 
his  homage  even  more  poetic  and  reverential. 
I  doubt  if  Flora  understood  him  or  herself. 
vShe  did  not  know,  what  he  instinctively  per- 
ceived, that  she  loved  him  less.  But  there  are 


202  PRUE    AND    I. 

no  degrees  in  love;  when  it  is  less  than  abso- 
lute and  supreme,  it  is  nothing.  Our  cousin 
and  Flora  were  not  formally  engaged,  but  their 
betrothal  was  understood  by  all  of  us  as  a 
thing  of  course.  He  did  not  allude  to  the 
stranger;  but  as  day  followed  day,  he  saw 
with  every  nerve  all  that  passed.  Gradually 
— so  gradually  that  she  scarcely  noticed  it — 
our  cousin  left  Flora  more  and  more  with  the 
soft-eyed  stranger,  whom  he  saw  she  pre- 
ferred. His  treatment  of  her  was  so  full  of 
tact,  he  still  walked  and  talked  with  her  so 
familiarly,  that  she  was  not  troubled  by  any 
fear  that  he  saw  what  she  hardly  saw  herself. 
Therefore,  she  was  not  obliged  to  conceal  any- 
thing from  him  or  from  herself;  but  all  the 
soft  currents  of  her  heart  were  setting  toward 
the  West  Indian.  Our  cousin's  cheek  grew 
paler,  and  his  soul  burned  and  wasted  within 
him.  His  whole  future — all  his  dream  of  life 
— had  been  founded  upon  his  love.  It  was  a 
stately  palace  built  upon  the  sand,  and  now  the 
sand  was  sliding  away.  I  have  read  some- 
where, that  love  will  sacrifice  everything  but 
itself.  But  our  cousin  sacrificed  his  love  to 
the  happiness  of  his  mistress.  He  ceased  to 
treat  her  as  peculiarly  his  own.  He  made 
no  claim  in  word  or  manner  that  everybody 


OUR   COUSIN    THE    CURATE.  203 

might  not  have  made.  He  did  not  refrain 
from  seeing  her,  or  speaking  of  her  as  of  all 
his  other  friends ;  arid,  at  length,  although  no 
one  could  say  how  or  when  the  change  had 
been  made,  it  was  evident  and  understood  that 
he  was  no  more  her  lover,  but  that  both  were 
the  best  of  friends. 

He  still  wrote  to  her  occasionally  from  col- 
lege, and  his  letters  were  those  of  a  friend^ 
not  of  a  lover.  He  could  not  reproach  her. 
I  do  not  believe  any  man  is  secretly  surprised 
that  a  woman  ceases  to  love  him.  Her  love  is 
a  heavenly  favor  won  by  no  desert  of  his.  If 
it  passes,  he  can  no  more  complain  than  a 
flower  when  the  sunshine  leaves  it. 

Before  our  cousin  left  college,  Flora  was 
married  to  the  tropical  stranger.  It  was  the 
brightest  of  June  days,  and  the  summer  smiled 
upon  the  bride.  There  were  roses  in  her  hand 
and  orange  flowers  in  her  hair,  and  the  village 
church  bell  rang  out  over  the  peaceful  fields. 
The  warm  sunshine  lay  upon  the  landscape 
like  God's  blessing,  and  Prue  and  I,  not  mar- 
ried ourselves,  stood  at  an  open  window  in  the 
old  meetinghouse,  hand  in  hand,  while  the 
young  couple  spoke  their  vows.  Prue  says- 
that  brides  are  always  beautiful,  and  I,  who- 
remember  Prue  herself  upon  her  wedding-day 


204  PRUE    AND    I. 

— how  can  I  deny  it?  Truly,  the  gay  Flora 
was  lovely  that  summer  morning,  and  the 
throng  was  happy  in  the  old  church.  But  it 
was  very  sad  to  me,  although  I  only  suspected 
then  what  now  I  know.  I  shed  no  tears  at 
my  own  wedding,  but  I  did  at  Flora's,  al- 
though I  knew  she  was  marrying  a  soft-eyed 
youth  whom  she  dearly  loved,  and  who,  I 
doubt  not,  dearly  loved  her. 

Among  the  group  of  her  nearest  friends  was 
our  cousin  the  curate.  When  the  ceremony 
was  ended,  he  came  to  shake  her  hand  with  the 
rest.  His  face  was  cairn,  and  his  smile  sweet, 
and  his  manner  unconstrained.  Flora  did  not 
blush — why  should  she?  but  shook  his  hand 
warmly,  and  thanked  him  for  his  good  wishes. 
Then  they  all  sauntered  down  the  aisle  to- 
gether; there  were  some  tears  with  the  smiles 
among  the  other  friends ;  our  cousin  handed 
the  bride  into  her  carriage,  shook  hands  with 
the  husband,  closed  the  door,  and  Flora  drove 
away. 

I  have  never  seen  her  since ;  I  do  not  even 
Icnow  if  she  be  living  still.  But  I  shall  always 
remember  her  as  she  looked  that  June  morn- 
ing, holding  roses  in  her  hand,  and  wreathed 
with  orange  flowers.  Dear  Flora!  it  was  no 
fault  of  hers  that  she  loved  one  man  more  than 


OUR    COUSIN    THE    CURATE.  205 

another :  she  could  not  be  blamed  for  not  pre- 
ferring our  cousin  to  the  West  Indian;  there 
is  no  fault  in  the  story,  it  is  only  a  tragedy. 

Our  cousin  carried  all  the  collegiate  honors 
— but  without  exciting  jealousy  or  envy.  He 
was  so  really  the  best,  that  his  companions 
were  anxious  he  should  have  the  sign  of  his 
superiority.  He  studied  hard,  he  thought 
much,  and  wrote  well.  There  was  no  evi- 
dence of  any  blight  upon  his  ambition  or 
career,  but  after  living  quietly  in  the  country 
for  some  time,  he  went  to  Europe  and 
traveled.  When  he  returned,  he  resolved  to 
study  law,  but  presently  relinquished  it. 
Then  he  collected  materials  for  a  history,  but 
suffered  them  to  lie  unused.  Somehow  the 
mainspring  was  gone.  He  used  to  come  and 
pass  weeks  with  Prue  and  me.  His  coming 
made  the  children  happy,  for  he  sat  with  them, 
and  talked  and  played  with  them  all  day  long, 
as  one  of  themselves.  They  had  no  quarrels 
when  our  cousin  the  curate  was  their  play- 
mate, and  their  laugh  was  hardly  sweeter  than 
his  as  it  rang  down  from  the  nursery.  Yet 
sometimes,  as  Prue  was  setting  the  tea  table, 
and  I  sat  musing  by  the  fire,  she  stopped  and 
turned  to  me  as  we  heard  that  sound,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  -^. »-.'•' 


206  PRUE    AND    I. 

He  was  interested  in  all  subjects  that  in- 
terested others.  His  fine  perception,  his  clear 
sense,  his  noble  imagination,  illuminated  every 
question.  His  friends  wanted  him  to  go  into 
political  life,  to  write  a  great  book,  to  do  some- 
thing worthy  of  his  powers.  It  was  the  very 
thing  he  longed  to  do  himself;  but  he  came 
and  played  with  the  children  in  the  nursery, 
and  the  great  deed  was  undone.  Often,  in 
the  long  winter  evenings  we  talked  of  the  past, 
while  Titbottom  sat  silently  by,  and  Prue  was 
busily  knitting.  He  told  us  the  incidents  of 
his  early  passion — but  he  did  not  moralize 
-about  it,  nor  sigh,  nor  grow  moody.  He 
turned  to  Prue,  sometimes,  and  jested  gently, 
and  often  quoted  from  the  old  song  of  George 
Wither's,  I  believe: 

"If  she  be  not  fair  for  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ?  " 

But  there  was  no  flippancy  in  the  jesting; 
I  thought  the  sweet  humor  was  no  gayer  than 
a  flower  upon  a  grave. 

I  am  sure  Titbottom  loved  our  cousin  the 
curate,  for  his  heart  is  as  hospitable  as  the 
summer  heaven.  It  was  beautiful  to  watch  his 
courtesy  toward  him,  and  I  do  not  wonder 
that  Prue  considers  the  deputy  bookkeeper  the 


OUR    COUSIN    THE    CURATE.  207 

model  of  a  high-bred  gentleman.  When  you 
see  his  poor  clothes,  and  thin,  gray  hair,  his 
loitering  step,  and  dreamy  eye,  you  might  pass 
him  by  as  an  inefficient  man;  but  when  you 
hear  his  voice  always  speaking  for  the  noble 
and  generous  side,  or  recounting,  in  a  half- 
melancholy  chant,  the  recollections  of  his 
youth;  when  you  know  that  his  heart  beats 
with  the  simple  emotion  of  a  boy's  heart,  and 
that  his  courtesy  is  as  delicate  as  a  girl's 
modesty,  you  will  understand  why  Prue  de- 
clares that  she  has  never  seen  but  one  man 
who  reminded  her  of  our  especial  favorite,  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  and  that  his  name  is  Titbottom. 

At  length  our  cousin  went  abroad  again  to 
Europe.  It  was  many  years  ago  that  we 
watched  him  sail  away,  and  when  Titbottom, 
and  Prue,  and  I  went  home  to  dinner,  the 
grace  that  was  said  that  day  was  a  fervent 
prayer  for  our  cousin  the  curate.  Many  an 
evening  afterward  the  children  wanted  him, 
and  cried  themselves  to  sleep  calling  upon 
his  name.  Many  an  evening  still,  our  talk 
flags  into  silence  as  we  sit  before  the  fire,  and 
Prue  puts  down  her  knitting  and  takes  my 
hand,  as  if  she  knew  my  thoughts,  although 
we  do  not  name  his  name. 

He  wrote  us  letters  as  he  wandered  about 


208  PRUE    AND    I. 

the  world.  They  were  affectionate  letters, 
full  of  observation,  and  thought,  and  descrip- 
tion. He  lingered  longest  in  Italy,  but  he  said 
his  conscience  accused  him  of  yielding  to  the 
sirens ;  and  he  declared  that  his  life  was  run- 
ning uselessly  away.  At  last  he  came  to  Eng- 
land. He  was  charmed  with  everything,  and 
the  climate  was  even  kinder  to  him  than  that 
of  Italy.  He  went  to  all  the  famous  places, 
and  saw  many  of  the  famous  Englishmen,  and 
wrote  that  he  felt  England  to  be  his  home. 
Burying  himself  in  the  ancient  gloom  of  a 
university  town,  although  past  the  prime  of 
life,  he  studied  like  an  ambitious  boy.  He 
said  again  that  his  life  had  been  wine  poured 
upon  the  ground,  and  he  felt  guilty.  And  so 
our  cousin  became  a  curate. 

"  Surely,"  wrote  he,  "  you  and  Prue  will  be 
glad  to  hear  it;  and  my  friend  Titbottom  can 
no  longer  boast  that  he  is  more  useful  in  the 
world  than  I.  Dear  old  George  Herbert  has 
already  said  what  I  would  say  to  you,  and  here 
it  is: 

"  '  I  made  a  posy,  while  the  day  ran  by  ; 
Here  will  I  smell  my  remnant  out,  and  tie 

My  life  within  this  band. 
But  time  did  beckon  to  the  flowers,  and  they 
My  noon  most  cunningly  did  steal  away, 

And  wither'd  in  my  hand. 


OUR    COUSIN    THE    CURATE.  209 

"  '  My  hand  was  next  to  them,  and  then  my  heart  ; 
I  took,  without  more  thinking,  in  good  part, 

Time's  gentle  admonition; 
Which  did  so  sweetly  death's  sad  taste  convey, 
Making  my  mind  to  smell  my  fatal  day, 

Yet  sugaring  the  suspicion. 

"  '  Farewell,  dear  flowers,  sweetly  your  time  ya  spent, 
Fit,  while  ye  lived,  for  smell  or  ornament, 

And  after  death  for  cures  ; 
I  follow  straight  without  complaints  or  grief, 
Since  if  my  scent  be  good,  I  care  not  if 

It  be  as  short  as  yours.'  " 

This  is  our  only  relation;  and  do  you 
wonder  that,  whether  our  days  are  dark  or 
bright,  we  naturally  speak  of  our  cousin  the 
curate?  There  is  no  nursery  longer,  for  the 
children  are  grown;  but  I  have  seen  Prue 
stand,  with  her  hand  holding  the  door,  for  an 
hour,  and  looking  into  the  room  now  so  sadly 
still  and  tidy,  with  a  sweet  solemnity  in  her 
eyes  that  I  will  call  holy.  Our  children  have 
forgotten  their  old  playmate,  but  I  am  sure  if 
there  be  any  children  in  his  parish,  over  the 
sea,  they  love  our  cousin  the  curate,  and  watch 
eagerly  for  his  coming.  Does  his  step  falter 
now,  I  wonder;  is  that  long,  fair  hair,  gray; 
is  that  laugh  as  musical  in  those  distant  homes 
as  it  used  to  be  in  our  nursery;  has  England, 


210  PRUE    AND   I. 

among  all  her  good  and  great  men,  any  man  so 
noble  as  our  cousin  the  curate? 

The  great  book  is  unwritten;  the  great 
deeds  are  undone;  in  no  biographical  diction- 
ary will  you  find  the  name  of  our  cousin  the 
curate.  Is  his  life,  therefore,  lost?  Have  his 
powers  been  wasted? 

I  do  not  dare  to  say  it;  for  I  see  Bourne, 
on  the  pinnacle  of  prosperity,  but  still  looking 
sadly  for  his  castle  in  Spain ;  I  see  Titbottom, 
an  old  deputy  bookkeeper,  whom  nobody 
knows,  but  with  his  chivalric  heart  loyal  to 
whatever  is  generous  and  humane,  full  of 
sweet  hope,  and  faith,  and  devotion ;  I  see  the 
superb  Aurelia,  so  lovely  that  the  Indians 
would  call  her  a  smile  of  the  Great  Spirit,  and 
as  beneficent  as  a  saint  of  the  calendar — how 
shall  I  say  what  is  lost,  or  what  is  won?  I 
know  that  in  every  way,  and  by  all  his 
creatures,  God  is  served  and  his  purposes  ac- 
complished. How  should  I  explain  or  under- 
stand, I,  who  am  only  an  old  bookkeeper,  in  a 
white  cravat? 

Yet  in  all  history,  in  the  splendid  triumphs 
of  emperors  and  kings,  in  the  dreams  of  poets, 
the  speculations  of  philosophers,  the  sacrifices 
of  heroes,  and  the  ecstasies  of  saints,  I  find 
no  exclusive  secret  of  success.  Prue  says  she 


OUR    COUSIN    THE    CURATE.  211 

knows  that  nobody  ever  did  more  good  than 
our  cousin  the  curate,  for  every  smile  and 
word  of  his  is  a  good  deed ;  and  I,  for  my  part, 
am  sure  that,  although  many  must  do  more 
good  in  the  world,  nobody  enjoys  it  more  than 
Prue  and  I. 


THE  ENDo 


Al 
i  lot 


*. 


